THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


lEtitttcm 

This  special  edition  is  limited  to  One  Thousand 

9  IrJ 

numbered   Copies.       No.  ...*w»..<T.f 


MY   STUDY   FIRE 

SECOND  SERIES 


Petrarch. 


MY 

STUDY 

FIRJL 

Second  Series 


HAMILTON 

WRIGHT 

MABIE 


,  MEAD 
COMPANY-MCM 


Copyright,  1894,  1900 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved 


Printed  in  October  1900 

a 


GIFT 


- 


V 


TO 
LORRAINE 

AMD 

HELEN 


289 


PS 


I  oo 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     THE  BOOK  AND  THE  READER     .     .  i 
II.     THE  READER'S  SECRET     .... 

III.  THE  POETRY  OF  FLAME  ....  18 

IV.  THE  FINALITIES  OF  EXPRESSION       .  25 
V.     ENJOYING  ONE'S   MIND    ....  34 

VI.     A  NEGLECTED  GIFT    .....  43 

VII.     CONCERNING   CULTURE     ....  51 

VIII.     THE  MAGIC  OF  TALK      ....  59 

IX.     WORK  AND  ART    ......  69 

X.     JOY  IN  LIFE      .......  77 

XI.     THE  REAL  AND   THE  SHAM   ...  86 

XII.     LIGHTNESS  OF  TOUCH       ....  96 

XIII.  THE  POETS'   CORNER  .....  103 

XIV.  THE  JOY  OF  THE  MOMENT  .     .     .  113 
XV.     THE  LOWELL  LETTERS     .     .     .     .  121 

XVI.     THE  TYRANNY  OF  BOOKS     .     .     .  I31 

XVII.     THE  SPELL  OF  STYLE       .     .     .     .  *39 

XVIII.     THE  SPEECH  AS  LITERATURE      .     .  147 

vii 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX.  A  POET  OF  ASPIRATION      .     .     .  156 

XX.  THE  READING  PUBLIC    .     .     .     .  165 

XXI.     SANITY  AND  ART 174 

XXII.  MANNER  AND  MAN        .     .     .     .  183 

XXIII.  THE  OUTING  OF  THE   SOUL     .     .  190 

XXIV.  THE  POWER  WHICH  LIBERATES     .  197 
XXV.  THE   UNCONSCIOUS  ARTIST       .     .  204 

XXVI.  THE  LAW  OF  OBEDIENCE   .     .     .  212 

XXVII.    STRUGGLE  IN  ART 220 

XXVIII.  THE  PASSION  FOR  PERFECTION      .  227 

XXIX.  CRITICISM  AS  AN  INTERPRETER      .  235 

XXX.  THE    EDUCATIONAL    QUALITY    OF 

CRITICISM 243 

XXXI.  PLATO'S  DIALOGUES  AS  LITERATURE  250 

XXXII.  THE  POWER  OF  THE  NOVEL   .     .  260 

XXXIII.  CONCERNING  ORIGINALITY  ...  267 

XXXIV.  BY  THE  WAY 275 


vin 


My  Study  Fire 


SECON'D" 


Chapter  I 

The  Book  and  the  Reader 

MRS.  BATTLE,  intent  upon  whist, 
insisted  upon  "  a  clear  fire,  a 
clean  hearth,  and  the  rigour  of  the 
game."  The  veteran  reader,  who  has 
come  to  love  his  occupation  not  only  for 
what  it  gives  him  but  for  itself,  is  equally 
punctilious  ;  he  must  have  a  quiet  room, 
a  cheerful  blaze,  and  the  book  that  fits 
his  mood.  He  has  meditated  before  the 
fire,  book  in  hand,  so  many  silent  and 
happy  days  that  he  knows  all  the  subtle 
adjustments  which  a  man  may  make  be 
tween  himself  and  his  library.  I  rarely 
look  at  my  books  in  that  leisurely  half- 
hour  which  precedes  getting  to  work 
without  fancying  myself  at  the  keyboard 
of  an  organ,  the  pipes  of  which  are  the 


My  Study  Fire 

gilded  and  many-coloured  rows  on  the 
shelves  about  me.  One  may  have  any 
kind  of  .mus.io-'hieictiooses  ;  it  is  only  a 
question,  ,of.  -mood..  There  is  no  deep 
harmony, -'no -haunting  melody,  ever  heard 
by  the  spirit  of  man  which  one  may  not 
hear  if  he  knows  his  books  thoroughly. 
The  great  gales  that  swept  Ulysses  into 
unknown  seas,  and  the  soft  winds  that 
stirred  the  myrtles  and  brought  down 
the  pine  cones  about  Theocritus  are  still 
astir,  if  one  knows  how  to  listen.  And 
those  inner  melodies  which  the  heart  of 
man  has  been  singing  to  itself  these 
thousands  of  years  are  audible  above  all 
the  tumult  of  the  world  if  one  has  a  place 
of  silence,  an  hour  of  solitude,  and  a  heart 
that  has  kept  the  freshness  of  its  youth. 

The  quality  which  makes  a  reader 
master  of  the  secret  of  books  is  primarily 
of  the  soul,  and  only  secondarily  of  the 
mind  ;  and  to  get  the  deepest  and  sweet 
est  out  of  literature  one  must  read  with 
the  heart.  A  book  read  with  the  mind 
only  is  skimmed  ;  true  reading  involves 


The  Book  and  the  Reader 

the  imagination  and  the  feelings.     And  it 
is  for  this  reason  that  one  needs  to  select 
a  book  for  the  day,  instead  of  taking  the 
first   one    that  comes  to   hand.     If  one 
reads  simply  as  a  mental  exercise  or  for 
information,    one    book    is    as    good    as 
another ;    but  if  one  reads    for    personal 
enlargement  and  enrichment,  every  hour 
has    its    own    book.       There    are    days 
for    Sir    Thomas  Browne    and    days  for 
Lamb —  although  I  am  often  of  opinion 
that  all   days  are  for   Lamb  ;   there  are 
days    for     Shakespeare    and     days    for 
Wordsworth,  days    for    Scott   and    days 
for   Thackeray.      The  great  days  when 
one  is  buoyant,  fertile,  virile,  belong  to 
the  great  writers.     Emerson   says,  with 
regard  to  that  difficult  dialogue  of  Plato's, 
the  "  Timaeus,"  that  one  must  wait  long 
for  the  fit  hour  in  which  to  read  it :  "  At 
last  the  elect  morning  arrives,  the  early 
dawn —  a  few  lights  conspicuous  in  the 
heavens,  as  of  a  world  just  created  and 
still  becoming  —  and  in  its  wide  leisure 
one  dare  open  that  book."    These  hours 
3 


My  Study  Fire 

of  health  and  vitality  belong  to  Dante, 
Shakespeare,  and  Goethe,  and  their  kin 
dred.  The  morning  hours  are  due  to  the 
mountain  summits,  and  it  is  a  sad  waste 
to  bestow  them  on  any  outlook  narrower 
than  the  horizons.  But  there  are  other 
days,  hardly  less  profitable,  when  one 
does  not  stir  with  the  lark,  but  lingers 
under  the  shadow  of  the  roof-tree ;  and 
for  these  more  subdued  hours  there  are 
voices  equally  musical,  if  not  so  com 
pelling,  voices  of  personal  if  not  of 
universal  truth.  A  reader  of  catholic 
temper  will  welcome  all  the  great  spirits 
at  his  hearthstone,  and  will  leave  the 
latch-string  out  for  the  new-comer  whose 
name  still  lingers  in  that  delightful 
obscurity  which  precedes  fame. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  read  too  many  books, 
to  permit  the  habit  of  reading  to  obscure 
the  ends  of  reading ;  but  it  is  equally  a 
mistake  to  read  exclusively  in  a  very  few 
directions.  There  are  people  whose  ego 
tism  transforms  their  very  faults  into 
virtues,  and  who  imagine  that  their  love 
4 


The  Book  and  the  Reader 

of  books  is  profound  because  it  is  limited. 
One  can  have  but  few  intimate  friends, 
but  it  is  wise  to  choose  these  friends 
from  among  the  greatest,  and  especially 
from  among  those  whose  temperament, 
habit,  and  surroundings  are  different 
from  our  own.  It  was  said  of  Dr.  Mul- 
ford  that  he  was  narrow  on  great  lines  ; 
the  difficulty  with  many  men  is  that  they 
are  narrow  on  small  lines.  It  is  wise  to 
follow  one's  taste,  for  that  is  the  line  of 
least  resistance,  but  it  must  not  be  for 
gotten  that  what  is  commonly  called 
taste  is  not  necessarily  good  taste ;  it  is 
merely  personal  inclination :  good  taste 
involves  education.  Our  companions 
of  the  mind  ought,  therefore,  to  be,  not 
those  who  confirm  us  in  our  preconcep 
tions  and  build  our  limitations  still  more 
massively  about  us,  but  those  who  liber 
ate  us  from  the  defects  of  our  nature  and 
the  faults  of  our  training.  "  Our  friends," 
says  Emerson,  "are  those  who  make 
us  do  what  we  can."  The  friend  who 
entertains  us  is  welcome,  but  if  he  does 
5 


My  Study  Fire 

not  pass  beyond  that  stage  in  our  inter 
course  he  never  really  touches  what  is 
deep  and  individual  in  us  ;  there  is  no 
real  commerce  of  soul  between  us.  The 
wise  reader,  therefore,  will  not  always 
turn  to  one  corner  of  his  library,  but  will 
pass  from  shelf  to  shelf,  and  will  know 
best  those  who  are  best  worth  knowing. 
Those  only  who  can  command  the 
highest  pleasures  of  life  —  solitude, 
leisure,  and  books  —  are  able  to  realise 
the  temptations  which  beset  the  reader 
and  lure  him  often  from  the  strait  and 
narrow  way  which  leads  to  the  deepest 
and  richest  intellectual  life.  Sitting  in 
slippered  ease  before  a  merry  fire,  the 
earth  white  to  the  horizon,  the  air  keen 
as  that  at  Elsinore,  bells  in  the  distance 
and  silence  and  warmth  within  doors, 
one  feels  the  danger  of  becoming  a  cal 
lous  monopolist.  The  consciousness 
that  one  is  steeping  his  mind  in  pure 
comfort,  in  unmixed  delight,  while  most 
men  are  toiling  in  offices  and  rushing 
about  crowded  streets,  sometimes  breeds 
6 


The  Book  and  the  Reader 

a  dangerous  sense  of  being  favoured  of 
fortune.  The  scholar  has  ever  been  the 
most  fortunate  of  men,  because  he  is  free 
to  pursue  the  things  of  the  mind,  while 
his  fellows  are  compelled  to  pursue  the 
things  of  the  body.  But  the  scholar  is 
sometimes  as  arid  as  some  men  of  affairs, 
as  juiceless  and  uninteresting  as  some 
capitalists.  Acquisition  for  its  own  sake 
develops  the  same  quality  of  character 
whether  one  devotes  himself  to  the  hoard 
ing  of  money  or  of  facts.  There  is,  how 
ever,  a  largeness,  a  vitality,  about  books 
which  helps  one  against  the  very  tempta 
tions  which  they  present  to  the  man  who 
loves  them.  To  read  for  the  mere  lux 
ury  of  reading  is  to  miss  the  best  things 
which  they  have  to  give.  In  every  true 
companionship  there  is  an  interchange  ; 
one  gives  as  well  as  receives.  The  best 
reading  —  the  most  intelligent  and  fruit 
ful  —  involves  a  community  of  interest 
and  thought  between  the  reader  and  the 
writer ;  the  contribution  of  the  latter  is 
positive,  and  that  of  the  former  negative, 
7 


My  Study  Fire 

but  both  are  real  and  both  are  necessary. 
The  actor  speaks  in  vain  unless  the 
imagination  of  the  theatre  kindles  and 
co-operates  with  him.  In  every  audi 
ence  there  are  listeners  who  have  almost 
as  much  to  do  with  the  speaker's  felicity 
and  eloquence  as  he  has  himself;  they 
are  persons  who  listen  actively,  not  pas 
sively.  There  are  readers  who  hang  like 
dead  weights  on  the  skirts  of  a  writer, 
and  there  are  those  who  walk  beside  him 
buoyant  with  his  strength,  eager  with  his 
energy  of  spirit,  and  kindled  with  the 
glow  of  his  thought.  These  are  the 
readers  who  make  a  true  exchange  with 
the  writer,  who  are  not  weakened  by 
many  books,  who  select  the  best,  and 
become  companions  of  the  heart  as  well 
as  of  the  mind. 


Chapter  II 

The  Reader's  Secret 

ONE  of  the  secrets  of  the  artist  is 
the  facility  and  completeness  with 
which  he  turns  his  conscious  processes  of 
mind  into  unconscious  ones,  and  so  does 
without  effort  that  which  costs  a  man  less 
thoroughly  trained  no  little  toil.  To  do 
with  ease  what  one  began  to  do  with 
effort  is  to  have  passed  from  the  state  of 
the  artisan  to  that  of  the  artist.  Art  in 
volves  the  hardest  kind  of  work,  but  in 
its  essence  it  is  play ;  for  it  is  always  an 
overflow  of  the  creative  force  of  a  rich 
nature,  and  never  power  strained  to  the 
last  point  of  endurance.  A  great  pic 
ture,  poem,  or  symphony  always  leaves 
the  impression  of  something  behind 
richer  and  profounder  than  that  which  it 
conveys ;  it  makes  one  conscious,  as 
Ruskin  has  said,  of  a  great  power  rather 
than  of  great  effort.  A  man  is  never 
9 


My  Study  Fire 

master  of  his  material  and  his  art  until 
they  have  become  so  much  a  part  of  him 
that  he  can  hardly  separate  himself  from 
them.  The  material  has  been  absorbed 
by  his  imagination  and  brooded  over  so 
long  that  it  becomes  his  own  by  the  only 
absolute  right  of  possession  known 
among  men.  So  Shakespeare  took  the 
story  of  the  "Tempest "  as  he  found  it 
in  some  Italian  or  Spanish  tale,  and  med 
itated  upon  it  until  the  whole  wealth  of 
his  nature  passed  into  it  and  the  bare 
framework  became  incrusted  with  such 
pearls  as  lie  only  in  the  great  deeps  of 
such  a  heart  as  his.  The  art  has  been 
so  lovingly  studied  and  so  loyally  prac 
tised  that  it  becomes  a  skill  of  the  soul 
rather  than  a  dexterity  of  the  hand,  and 
what  was  at  first  calculated  with  nicest 
sense  of  proportion  and  adjustment  be 
comes  at  last  a  natural  and  almost  effort 
less  putting  forth  of  strength. 

Now,  the  trained  reader  who  has  mas 
tered  his  art  passes  through  a  kindred 
progress  from  the  conscious  to  the  un- 

10 


The  Reader's  Secret 

conscious.  He  begins  with  rules,  times, 
and  habits ;  these  are  the  mechanical  side 
of  his  training ;  but  when  he  has  learned 
his  craft  he  has  long  ago  forgotten  them. 
The  artist's  education  is  of  supreme  im 
portance  to  him  ;  but  when  he  comes  at 
last  to  handle  his  brush  with  creative 
freedom  and  force,  the  processes  of  his 
training  are  as  far  behind  him  and  out 
of  his  thought  as  is  the  hard  discipline 
of  learning  one's  letters  out  of  mind 
when  one  is  deep  in  fc  Henry  Esmond  " 
or  "  The  Tale  of  Two  Cities."  The 
conscious  process  has  become  uncon 
scious;  that  which  one  began  to  do  as 
work  he  now  does  as  play.  The  atti 
tude  of  the  reader  toward  his  book  is  at 
last  one  of  unconscious  receptivity;  his 
intelligence  is  keenly  awake  and  active, 
but  it  has  ceased  to  be  conscious  of  itself; 
the  whole  nature  is  absorbed  in  the  book. 
This  means  true  reading,  —  reading,  not 
for  entertainment,  but  for  personal  en 
richment  and  enlargement.  One  may 
skim  a  book  as  a  swallow  skims  through 


ii 


My  Study  Fire 

the  air  and  leaves  no  trace  of  its  flight ; 
or  one  may  build  a  nest  in  a  book  and 
make  it  one  of  the  homes  of  the  spirit  in 
the  brief  summer  of  life.  The  great 
works  of  the  imagination  ought  to  be 
part  of  our  lives  as  they  were  once  of 
the  very  substance  of  the  men  who  made 
them. 

To  see  only  the  splendid  pageantry 
of  the  Shakespearean  drama  is  to  suffer 
the  eye  to  cheat  the  imagination.  Shake 
speare  speaks  to  that  which  is  deepest 
and  most  individual  in  us ;  his  word  is 
for  the  soul,  not  for  the  ear  only.  To 
catch  the  matchless  music  of  his  verse  is, 
indeed,  one  of  the  joys  of  life  ;  but  that 
faultless  melody,  which  drains  into  its 
harmonious  flow  all  the  rills  of  music 
hidden  in  spoken  words,  is  but  the  sign 
and  symbol  of  the  life  which  it  contains 
and  reveals.  When  the  young  Goethe 
said,  after  reading  Shakespeare  for  the 
first  time,  that  he  felt  as  if  he  had  been 
reading  the  book  of  fate  with  the  hurri 
cane  of  life  sweeping  through  it  and  toss- 


12 


The  Reader's  Secret 

ing  its  leaves  to  and  fro,  he  made  it  clear 
that  he  had  read  Shakespeare  with  his 
heart ;  he  had  touched  the  vital  power 
in  the  great  dramatist,  and  he  had  been 
enriched  for  all  time.  Every  great  book 
is  charged  with  life ;  the  measure  of  its 
greatness  is  the  degree  in  which  it  has 
been  vitalised  by  the  great  nature  out  of 
which  it  issued.  This  vital  power  is  the 
heart  and  soul  of  the  book,  and  to  get  at 
it  and  possess  it  is  the  highest  task  and 
the  supreme  reward  of  the  reader  of  the 
book.  When  he  has  reached  a  point 
where,  his  intelligence  alert  and  eager,  he 
unconsciously  absorbs  the  book,  he  has 
become  co-operative  with  the  writer,  and, 
in  a  sense,  on  a  level  with  him.  It  is  to 
such  readers  that  the  great  minds  speak, 
and  from  such  readers  they  hold  back 
nothing  they  have  learned  of  the  mystery 
of  life  and  art. 

One  may  read  the  play  of  cc  Antony 

and  Cleopatra  "  and  get  nothing  from  it 

but  a  series  of  brilliant  pictures  ;  or  one 

may  read  it  and  add  a  large  measure  of 

13 


My  Study  Fire 

Eastern  and  Roman  life  to  his  own  life, 
and  push  back  the  horizons  of  his  own 
experience  so  as  to  include  these  great 
and  tragical  workings-out  of  human 
destiny  under  both  eternal  and  historical 
conditions.  Could  a  day  of  solitude  and 
silence  be  given  to  a  richer  use  than 
this  ?  One  will  not  drain  the  play  of  its 
meaning  in  many  days,  but  one  day  set 
apart  to  it  will  make  the  work  of  succeed 
ing  days  easy  and  inevitable.  Here  is  a 
great  piece  of  art,  which  is,  like  all  kin 
dred  works,  a  great  piece  of  life.  To 
get  at  its  secret  one  must  use  all  intelli 
gence,  but  above  all  one  must  open  his 
heart  to  it ;  one  must  be  willing,  first  of 
all,  to  receive  it  fully  and  unresistingly ; 
there  will  be  time  enough  for  criticism 
later ;  the  first  thing  to  be  done  is  to 
possess  the  poem.  When  one  forgets 
himself  and  surrenders  himself  to  a 
work  of  art,  he  feels  at  the  very  start  its 
obvious  beauty ;  he  gets  the  first  inten 
tion  of  the  poet ;  he  abandons  himself  to 
the  music  with  which  the  thought  first 
14 


The  Reader's  Secret 

speaks  to  him,  to  the  colour  and  form 
which  instantly  address  the  eye.  He 
who  would  master  a  noble  piece  of  art 
must  begin  with  the  purest,  fullest,  and 
simplest  joy  in  its  most  obvious  beauty. 
This  very  beauty  awakens  the  imagi 
nation,  and  now  the  reader  becomes  a 
poet  no  less  than  the  writer;  he  con 
firms  the  true  art  of  the  play  by  disclos 
ing  in  himself  the  miracle  which  true  art 
always  works.  For  great  art  is  never 
complete  in  itself;  it  is  complete  only  in 
the  imagination  of  him  who  really  sees 
it,  and  when  that  imagination  finishes 
the  sublime  work  which  the  greatest  poet 
can  only  begin.  And  now  Rome  and 
Egypt  cease  to  be  geographical  expres 
sions  ;  they  rise  on  the  horizon  of 
thought;  they  are  thronged  with  hurry 
ing  feet,  and  life  surges  through  their 
streets  and  beats  itself  out  against  their 
walls.  And  that  life  takes  on  its  own 
form  and  atmosphere :  Rome,  massive, 
virile,  masterful ;  Egypt,  languorous, 
voluptuous,  enervating.  Cities,  dress, 
15 


My  Study  Fire 

atmosphere,  are  recreated  ;  and,  touched 
by    the    same    spell,    men    and    women 
whose  names  were  fading  on  the  dusty 
page  of  history  live  and  move  with   a 
vitality  which  once  made  them  masters 
of  the  world-movements.    These  striking 
persons  reveal   their   several    characters, 
disclose  their  relations  to  the  time,  the 
institutions,  and  the  historic  movement ; 
we  are  absorbed  in  their  personal  destiny 
as  it  is  wrought  out  against  the    back 
ground  of  two  civilisations.     The  story 
runs    on  with    an   ever-widening   sweep 
and   with    ever-clearing    tendency,    and 
slowly,  out  of  that  which  is  personal  and 
individual,  the  vaster  drama  of  the  soul 
unfolds  itself,  and  what  was  Roman  and 
Egyptian  becomes  universal   and  for  all 
time.     When    at    last   the   curtain   falls, 
we  have  made  conquest  of  a  striking  bit 
of  history,  of  two  diverse  kinds  of  civili 
sation,  of  one  of  the  most  splendid  and 
significant  stories  of  human  passion  and 
suffering,  and  of  a  great  chapter  out  of 
the  spiritual    story    of  the    race.     This 


16 


The  Reader's  Secret 

appropriation  has  come  to  us,  not  by 
analysis,  but  by  the  co-operating  activity 
of  the  imagination,  opening  the  mind 
and  the  heart  to  the  free  play  of  the 
poet's  purpose  and  genius  ;  analysis  may 
come  later,  but  the  vital  quality  and  the 
spiritual  secret  of  the  play  are  mastered 
by  unconscious  receptivity.  It  is  al 
ways  better  to  give  than  to  receive,  and 
in  giving  ourselves  we  have  gained 
Shakespeare. 


Chapter  III 

The  Poetry  of  Flame 

ONE  who  has  the  passion  for  read 
ing  learns  to  read  under  all 
conditions ;  but  there  are  books  which 
refuse  to  compromise  with  the  conven 
ience  of  the  reader,  and  demand  not  only 
the  right  moment  but  the  harmonious 
atmosphere.  One  may  read  Dickens 
with  impunity  anywhere;  the  human 
interest  in  his  stories  is  so  close  and  so 
catholic  that  they  gain  rather  than  lose 
by  the  sense  of  the  nearness  and  pressure 
of  human  life ;  but  it  would  be  little  less 
than  sacrilege  to  open  Lander's  "  Hel 
lenics  "  in  a  street-car,  or  Sir  Philip  Sid 
ney's  "  Arcadia  "  on  a  ferry-boat.  Books 
of  this  temper  will  not  bear  contact  with 
the  hard  actualities  of  human  condition  ; 
they  exact  the  reverence  of  a  quiet  mood 
and  an  hour  of  solitude.  So,  I  some 
times  fancy,  every  book  guards  its  inner- 
18 


The  Poetry  of  Flame 

most  secret  with  certain  conditions  which, 
like  the  hedge  of  thorns  about  the  sleep 
ing  Princess,  preserve  it  for  those  elected 
by  taste  and  temperament  to  master  it. 
There  are  poems  which   need  the   high 
light  of  summer  mornings  out-of-doors ; 
and   there    are    poems    which    need    the 
ruddy  flame  of  the  wood  fire.     All  mo 
tion  has  a  rhythm,  if  we  are  keen  enough 
to  detect  it;  and  I  suspect  that  every 
dancing  flame  playing  capriciously  along 
the  glowing  logs  has  a  music  of  its  own. 
Sometimes,  when   one  is   in   the  mood, 
the   rhythm   of  the  fire  strikes  into  the 
rhythm  of  the  verse,  and  the  two   flow 
on  together.    Fortunate  is  the  poet  when 
Nature  takes  up   his  song  in  her  own 
key,  and   fortunate  is  the   reader  when 
this  special  felicity  befalls  him! 

An  open  fire  finds  its  peculiar  charm 
in  the  liberation  of  imagination  which  it 
effects.  It  is  all  colour,  motion,  sound, 
and  change,  and  he  must  be  dull  indeed 
who  does  not  straightway  become  a  poet 
under  its  spell.  For  the  work  of  the 
19 


My  Study  Fire 

fire  is  a  symbol  of  the  work  of  the  imagi 
nation  ;  it  liberates  the  ethereal  qualities 
prisoned  in  the  dense  fibres  of  the  wood  ; 
it  transforms  the  prose  of  hard  material 
into  the  poetry  of  flame.  Whether  we 
respond  to  it  or  not,  the  hum  of  the  fire 
is  a  song  out  of  the  music  to  which  all 
things  are  set,  and  its  brief  burning  is 
part  of  the  process  by  which,  to  those 
who  see  with  the  imagination,  this  hard, 
intractable  world  is  always  bearing  that 
harvest  of  poetry  of  which  Emerson  was 
thinking  when  he  wrote :  "  Shakespeare, 
Homer,  Dante,  Chaucer,  saw  the  splen 
dour  of  meaning  that  plays  over  the 
visible  world ;  knew  that  a  tree  has 
another  use  than  for  apples,  and  corn 
another  than  for  meal,  and  the  ball  of 
the  earth  than  for  tillage  and  roads  ;  that 
these  things  bore  a  second  and  finer 
harvest  to  the  mind,  being  emblems  of 
its  thoughts,  and  conveying  in  all  their 
natural  history  a  certain  mute  commen 
tary  on  human  life." 

The  open  fire  sings  its  song,  heard  or 

20 


The  Poetry  of  Flame 

unheard,  in  all  ears.  It  is  the  oldest  and 
most  primitive  of  all  the  forms  of  service 
which  men  exact  from  nature  ;  but,  glow 
ing  on  all  hearths  and  for  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men,  it  is  always  and 
everywhere  transforming  the  prose  of 
life  into  poetry  ;  for  poetry,  being  the 
soul  of  things,  is  universal.  It  is  only 
the  very  highest  gifts  which,  as  Lowell 
has  said  of  heaven,  are  to  be  had  for  the 
asking.  To  a  few  are  given  the  shows 
of  rank  and  the  luxury  of  wealth,  but 
purity,  nobility,  and  self-sacrifice  are  to 
be  had  by  every  comer.  We  are  all 
born  poets,  although  so  many  of  us 
defeat  the  purposes  of  nature.  For  the 
world  produces  poetry  as  naturally  and 
inevitably  as  a  tree  bears  its  blossoms, 
and  we  are  compelled  to  close  our  eyes 
to  avoid  seeing  that  which  the  imagina 
tion  must  see  if  it  see  at  all.  It  is  in 
what  we  call  common  things  that  poetry 
hides,  and  he  who  cannot  find  it  there 
cannot  find  it  anywhere.  It  is  absence 
of  the  poetic  mind,  not  lack  of  poetic 


21 


My  Study  Fire 

material,  which  makes  some  periods  so 
sterile  in  imaginative  production.  When 
the  imagination  is  powerful  and  crea 
tive,  everything  turns  to  poetry,  —  the 
stranded  ship  on  the  bar,  the  rusty 
anchor  at  the  wharf,  the  glimpse  of 
cloud  at  the  end  of  the  street,  the  shout 
of  children  at  play,  the  crumbling  hut, 
the  work-stained  man  returning  from  his 
task,  —  the  whole  movement  and  stir  of 
life  in  the  vast  range  of  common  inci- 

o 

dent  and  universal  experience.  Touch 
life  anywhere  with  the  imagination  and 
it  turns  into  gold,  or  into  something  less 
material  and  perishable.  We  live,  move, 
and  have  our  being  in  the  atmosphere  of 
poetry ;  for  every  act  of  sacrifice,  every 
touch  of  tenderness,  every  word  of  love, 
every  birth  of  aspiration,  is  so  much 
experience  transformed  into  poetry. 
Could  anything  be  more  commonplace, 
to  the  mind  that  has  not  learned  that 
the  commonplace  is  always  an  illusion, 
than  the  fact  that  a  young  girl,  living  in 
rural  solitude,  had  died  ?  That  was  the 

22 


The  Poetry  of  Flame 

bare  fact,  the  prose  rendering ;  and  this 
is  the  truth,  the  poetic  rendering : 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove  ; 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 

And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye  !  — 

Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 

The  difference  to  me  ! 

There  is  a  kind  of  elemental  simpli 
city  of  feeling,  imagery,  and  diction  in 
these  brief  lines  that  touches  us  like  the 
ripple  of  a  brook  in  the  woods.  Life 
has  few  facts  more  unadorned  than  those 
which  furnish  the  material  for  these 
verses,  but  does  the  imagination  flash  its 
mysterious  light  anywhere  in  literature 
more  distinctly  ?  The  little  poem  is  as 
quiet,  simple,  solitary  as  the  mountain 
23 


My  Study  Fire 

tarn,  but  it  is  as  deep  ;  and  there  are  stars 
in  its  depths.  It  is  an  illusion  that  some 
things  are  commonplace,  some  experi 
ences  without  significance,  and  some  lives 
without  vision  and  beauty.  The  wood 
becomes  flame,  the  seed  turns  into 
flower,  the  mist  athwart  the  rays  of  light 
is  changed  into  the  gold  of  the  evening 
sky,  the  hidden  and  unconscious  sacri 
fice  flashes  suddenly  into  one  of  those 
deeds  which  men  count  for  proofs  of 
immortality,  the  uncouth  pleader  of  the 
frontier  becomes  the  hero  of  the  "  Com 
memoration  Ode,"  — 

New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 


24 


Chapter  IV 

The  Finalities  of  Expression 

SOCRATES  seems  to  most  of  us  an 
eminently  wholesome  character,  in 
capable  of  corrupting  the  youth,  although 
adjudged  guilty   of  that    grave    offence 
and  altogether  a  man  to  be  trusted  and 
honoured.     And  the  tradition   of  Xan- 
tippe  adds  our  sympathy  to  our    faith. 
But  Carlyle  evidently  distrusted  Socrates, 
for  he  says  of  him,  reproachfully,  that 
he  was  "  terribly  at  ease  in  Zion."      It  is 
quite  certain  that  neither  within  Zion  nor 
outside  its  walls  was  Carlyle  at  ease, 
sweating  smith  ever  groaned  more  at  his 
task   than  did  this  greatest   of  modern 
English  literary  artists.     He  fairly  grov 
elled    in    toil,    bemoaning    himself    and 
smiting  his  fellow-man  in  sheer  anguish 
of  spirit;  producing  his  masterpieces  to 
an  accompaniment  of  passionate  but  un- 
profane  curses  on  the  conditions  under 
25 


My  Study  Fire 

which,  and  the  task  upon  which,  he 
worked.  This,  however,  was  the  artisan, 
not  the  artist,  side  of  the  great  writer ;  it 
was  the  toil-worn,  unrelenting  Scotch 
conscience  astride  his  art  and  riding  it  at 
times  as  Tarn  o'  Shanter  spurred  his  gray 
mare,  Meg,  on  the  ride  to  Kirk  Alloway. 
Socrates,  on  the  other  hand,  is  always  at 
ease  and  in  repose.  His  touch  on  the 
highest  themes  is  strong  and  sure,  but 
light  almost  as  air.  There  seem  to  be 
no  effort  about  his  morality,  no  self-con 
sciousness  in  his  piety,  no  strain  in  his 
philosophy.  The  man  and  his  words 
are  in  perfect  harmony,  and  both  seem 
to  be  a  natural  flowering  and  fulfilment 
of  the  higher  possibilities  of  life.  Un 
couth  as  he  was  in  person,  there  was  a 
strange  and  compelling  beauty  in  this 
unconventional  teacher;  for  the  expres 
sion  both  of  his  character  and  of  his 
thought  was  wholly  in  the  field  of  art. 
He  was  an  artist  just  as  truly  as  Phidias 
or  Pericles  or  Plato ;  one,  that  is,  who 
gave  the  world  not  the  processes  but  the 
26 


The  Finalities  of  Expression 

results  of  labour;  for  grace,  as  George 
Macdonald  somewhere  says,  is  the  result 
of  forgotten  toil.  Socrates  had  his  strug 
gles,  but  what  the  world  saw  and  heard 
was  the  final  and  harmonious  achieve 
ment  ;  it  heard  the  finished  speech,  not 
the  orator  declaiming  on  the  beach  with 
pebbles  in  his  mouth ;  it  saw  the  com 
pleted  picture,  not  the  artist  struggling 
with  those  obdurate  patches  of  colour 
about  which  Hamerton  tells  us.  When 
the  supreme  moment  and  experience 
came,  Socrates  was  calm  amid  his  weep 
ing  friends,  and  died  with  the  quiet  as 
surance  of  one  to  whom  death  was  so 
entirely  incidental  that  any  special  agita 
tion  would  seem  to  exaggerate  its  impor 
tance  ;  and  exaggeration  is  intolerable  in 
art. 

This  bit  of  vital  illustration  may  sug 
gest  a  deeper  view  of  art  than  that  which 
we  habitually  take,  and  a  view  which  may 
make  us  for  a  moment  conscious  of  the 
loss  which  modern  life  sustains  in  hav 
ing  lost  so  largely  the  art  spirit.  Men 
27 


My  Study  Fire 

degenerate  without  a  strong  grasp  on 
morality,  but  they  grow  deformed  and 
unhappy  without  art.  For  art  is  as 
truly  the  final  expression  of  perfect  char 
acter  as  of  perfect  thought,  and  beauty  is 
as  much  a  quality  of  divinity  as  righteous 
ness.  When  goodness  gets  beyond  self- 
consciousness,  when  the  love  of  man  for 
God  becomes  as  genuine  and  simple  and 
instinctive  as  the  love  of  a  child  for  its 
father,  both  goodness  and  love  become 
beautiful.  Beauty  is  the  final  form  of 
all  pure  activities,  and  truth  and  right 
eousness  do  not  reach  their  perfect  stage 
until  they  take  on  beauty.  Struggle  is 
heroic,  and  our  imaginations  are  deeply 
moved  by  it,  but  struggle  is  only  a 
means  to  an  end,  and  to  rest  in  it  and 
glorify  it  is  to  exalt  the  process  above 
the  consummation.  We  need  beauty 
just  as  truly  as  we  need  truth,  for  it  is  as 
much  a  part  of  our  lives.  A  beautiful 
character,  like  a  beautiful  poem  or  statue, 
becomes  a  type  or  standard;  it  brings 
the  ideal  within  our  vision,  and,  while  it 
28 


The  Finalities  of  Expression 

fills  us  with  a  divine  discontent,  satisfies 
and  consoles  us.  The  finalities  of  char 
acter  and  of  art  restore  our  vision  of  the 
ends  of  life,  and,  by  disclosing  the  sur 
passing  and  thrilling  beauty  of  the  final 
achievement,  reconcile  us  to  the  toil  and 
anguish  which  go  before  it.  The  men 
and  women  are  few  who  would  not  gladly 
die  if  they  might  do  one  worthy  thing 
perfectly. 

The  conscience  of  most  English-speak 
ing  people  has  been  trained  in  the  direc 
tion  of  morality,  but  not  in  the  direction 
of  beauty.  We  hold  ourselves  with  pain 
ful  solicitude  from  all  contact  with  that 
which  corrupts  or  defiles,  but  we  are  ab 
solutely  unscrupulous  when  it  comes  to 
colour  and  form  and  proportion.  We 
are  studious  not  to  offend  the  moral 
sense,  but  we  do  not  hesitate  to  abuse 
the  aesthetic  sense.  We  fret  at  political 
corruption,  and  at  long  intervals  we  give 
ourselves  the  trouble  of  getting  rid  of  it ; 
but  we  put  up  public  buildings  which 
may  well  make  higher  intelligences  than 
29 


My  Study  Fire 

ours  shudder  at  such  an  uncovering  of 
our  deformity.  We  insist  on  decent 
compliance  with  the  law,  but  we  ruth 
lessly  despoil  a  beautiful  landscape  and 
stain  a  fair  sky,  as  if  these  acts  were  not 
flagrant  violations  of  the  order  of  the 
universe.  The  truth  is,  our  consciences 
are  like  our  tastes;  they  are  only  half 
trained.  They  operate  directly  and 
powerfully  on  one  side  of  our  lives, 
and  on  the  other  they  are  dumb  and 
inactive. 

An  intelligent  conscience  insists  on  a 
whole  life  no  less  than  on  a  clean  one ; 
it  exacts  obedience,  not  to  one  set  of 
laws,  but  to  law ;  it  makes  us  as  uncom 
fortable  in  the  presence  of  a  neglected 
opportunity  as  in  the  presence  of  a  mis 
used  one.  It  is  not  surprising  that  men 
are  restless  under  present  conditions ; 
there  is  a  squalor  in  many  manufacturing 
and  mining  countries  which  eats  into  the 
sou^ —  an  ugliness  that  hurts  the  eye 
and  makes  the  heart  ache.  Blue  sky  and 
green  grass  cry  out  at  such  profanation, 
30 


The  Finalities  of  Expression 

and  it  is  not  strange  that  the  soul  of  the 
man  who  daily  faces  that  hideous  deform 
ity  of  God's  fair  world  grows  savage  and 
that  he  becomes  a  lawbreaker  like  his 
employer.  For  lawbreaking  is  conta 
gious,  and  he  who  violates  the  whole 
some  beauty  of  the  world  lets  loose  a 
spirit  which  will  not  discriminate  between 
general  and  particular  property,  between 
the  landscape  and  the  private  estates 
which  compose  it.  The  culprit  who  de 
faces  a  picture  in  a  public  gallery  meets 
with  condign  punishment,  but  the  man 
who  defaces  a  lovely  bit  of  nature,  a  liv 
ing  picture  set  in  the  frame  of  a  golden 
day,  goes  unwhipped  of  justice ;  for  we 
are  as  yet  only  partly  educated,  and  civ 
ilisation  ends  abruptly  in  more  than  one 
direction. 

The  absence  of  the  corrective  spirit 
of  art  is  seen  in  the  obtrusiveness  of 
much  of  our  morality  and  religion ;  we 
formulate  and  methodise  so  much  that 
ought  to  be  spontaneous  and  free.  The 
natural  key  is  never  out  of  harmony  with 
31 


My  Study  Fire 

the  purest  strains  of  which  the  soul  is 
capable,  but  we  distrust  it  to  such  an 
extent  that  much  of  the  expression  of 
religious  life  is  in  an  unnatural  key. 
We  are  afraid  of  simple  goodness,  and 
are  never  satisfied  until  we  have  cramped 
it  into  some  conventional  form  and  sub 
stituted  for  the  pure  inspiration  a  well- 
contrived  system  of  mechanism  ;  for  the 
Psalms  we  are  always  substituting  the 
Catechism,  and  in  all  possible  ways  trans 
lating  the  deep  and  beautiful  poetry  of 
the  spiritual  life  into  the  hard  prose 
of  ecclesiasticism  and  dogmatism.  The 
perfect  harmony  of  the  life  and  truth  of 
the  divinest  character  known  to  men 
teaches  a  lesson  which  we  have  yet  to 
learn.  If  the  words  of  Christ  and  those 
of  any  catechism  are  set  in  contrast,  the 
difference  between  the  crudity  of  pro 
visional  statements  and  the  divine  per 
fection  of  the  finalities  of  truth  and  life 
is  at  once  apparent.  We  have  learned  in 
part  the  lesson  of  morality,  but  we  have 
yet  to  learn  the  lesson  of  beauty.  We 
32 


The  Finalities  of  Expression 

have  not  learned  it  because  in  our  moral 
education  we  have  stopped  short  of 
perfection  ;  for  the  purest  and  highest 
morality  becomes  a  noble  form  of 
art. 


33 


Chapter  V 

Enjoying  One's  Mind 

WHO  that  lives  in  this  busy,  noisy 
age  has  not  envied  the  lot  of 
Gilbert  White,  watching  with  keen,  quiet 
eyes  the  little  world  of  Selborne  for  more 
than  fifty  uneventful  years  ?  To  a  mind 
so  tranquil  and  a  spirit  so  serene  the 
comings  and  goings  of  the  old  domesti 
cated  turtle  in  the  garden  were  more 
important  than  the  debates  in  Parlia 
ment.  The  pulse  of  the  world  beat 
slowly  in  the  secluded  hamlet,  and  the 
roar  of  change  and  revolution  beyond 
the  Channel  were  only  faintly  echoed 
across  the  peaceful  hills.  The  methodi 
cal  observer  had  as  much  leisure  as 
Nature  herself,  and  could  wait  patiently 
on  the  moods  of  the  seasons  for  those 
confidences  which  he  always  invited,  but 
34 


Enjoying  One's  Mind 

which  he  never  forced  ;  and  there  grew 
up  a  somewhat  platonic  but  very  loyal 
friendship  between  him  and  the  beautiful 
rural  world  about  him.  How  many 
days  of  happy  observation  were  his,  and 
with  what  a  sense  of  leisure  his  discov 
eries  were  set  down,  in  English  as  devoid 
of  artifice  or  strain  or  the  fever  of  haste 
as  the  calm  movements  of  the  seasons 
registered  there  !  There  was  room  for 
enjoyment  in  a  life  so  quietly  ordered; 
time  for  meditation  and  for  getting 
acquainted  with  one's  self. 

Most  of  us  use  our  minds  as  tools, 
which  are  never  employed  save  in  our 
working  hours ;  we  press  them  con 
stantly  to  the  limits  of  endurance,  and 
often  beyond.  Instead  of  cultivating 
intimate  friendship  with  them,  we  enslave 
them,  and  set  them  to  tasks  which  blight 
their  freshness  and  deplete  their  vitality. 
A  mind  cannot  be  always  hard  at  work 
earning  money  for  a  man,  and  at  the 
same  time  play  the  part  of  friend  to  him. 
Treated  with  respect  and  courtesy,  there 
35 


My  Study  Fire 

is  no  better  servant  than  the  mind; 
when  this  natural  and  loyal  service  is 
turned  into  drudgery,  however,  the  ser 
vant  makes  no  complaint  and  attempts 
no  evasion,  but  the  man  loses  one  of  the 
greatest  and  sweetest  of  all  the  resources 
of  life.  For  there  is  no  better  fortune 
than  to  be  on  good  terms  with  one's 
mind,  and  to  live  with  it  in  unrestrained 
good-fellowship.  We  cannot  escape  liv 
ing  with  it ;  even  death  is  powerless  to 
separate  us ;  but,  so  far  as  pleasure  is 
concerned,  everything  depends  on  the 
nature  of  the  relation.  The  mind  is 
ready  to  accept  any  degree  of  intimacy, 
but  it  is  powerless  to  determine  what 
that  degree  shall  be ;  it  must  do  as  it  is 
bid,  and  is  made  a  friend  or  a  slave  with 
out  any  opportunity  of  choice. 

To  enjoy  one's  mind  one  must  take 
time  to  become  acquainted  with  it.  Our 
deepest  friendships  are  not  affairs  of  the 
moment ;  they  ripen  slowly  on  the  sunny 
side  of  the  wall,  and  a  good  many  sea 
sons  go  to  their  perfect  mellowness  and 
36 


Enjoying  One's  Mind 

sweetness.  The  man  who  wishes  to  get 
delight  out  of  his  mind,  and  be  enter 
tained  by  it,  must  give  it  time.  The 
mind  needs  freedom  and  leisure,  and 
cannot  be  its  best  without  them.  A 
good  talker,  who  has  a  strain  of  imagi 
nation  and  sentiment  in  him,  cannot 
be  pushed  into  brilliant  or  persuasive 
fluency.  If  you  are  hurried  and  can 
give  only  partial  attention,  he  is  silent : 
the  atmosphere  does  not  warm  his  gift 
into  life.  The  mind  is  even  more  sen 
sitive  to  your  mood  and  dependent  on 
your  attitude.  If  you  are  so  absorbed  in 
affairs  that  you  can  never  give  it  any 
thing  better  than  your  cast-off  hours,  do 
not  expect  gay  companionship  from  it ; 
for  gayety  involves  a  margin  of  vitality, 
an  overflow  of  spirits.  It  is  oftener  on 
good  terms  with  youth  than  with  matu 
rity,  because  young  men  drive  it  less  and 
live  with  it  more.  They  give  it  room 
for  variety  of  interests  and  time  for 
recreation,  and  it  rewards  them  with 
charming  vivacity.  It  craves  leisure  and 
37 


My  Study  Fire 

ease  of  mood  because  these  furnish  the 
conditions  under  which  it  can  become 
confidential ;  give  it  a  summer  day,  and, 
if  you  have  made  it  your  friend,  it  will 
give  you  long  hours  of  varied  and  whole 
some  entertainment.  It  has  sentiment, 
imagination,  wit,  and  memory  at  its  com 
mand,  and,  like  an  Eastern  magician, 
will  transport  you  to  any  climate  or 
bring  any  object  to  your  feet.  Never 
was  there  so  willing  a  friend,  nor  one 
whose  resources  are  so  constantly 
ignored. 

What  a  man  finds  in  his  mind  and 
gets  out  of  it  depends  very  much  on 
himself;  for  the  mind  fits  its  entertain 
ment  to  the  taste  of  its  one  tyrannical 
auditor.  Probably  few  men  have  ever 
lived  more  loyally  with  their  minds  than 
Wordsworth.  Fame  found  him  a  re 
cluse  and  left  him  solitary ;  crowds  had 
no  charms  for  him,  and  at  dinner-tables 
he  had  no  gifts.  He  was  at  his  best 
pacing  his  garden  walk  and  carrying  on 
that  long  colloquy  with  his  mind  which 
33 


Enjoying  One's  Mind 

was   his    one    consuming  passion.     The 
critics  speak  of  him  as  an  isolated,  often 
as  a  cold,  nature;   but  no  man    of  his 
time,  not  even  Byron,  put  more  passion 
into  his  work :  only  his  passion  was  not 
for  persons,  it  was  for  ideas.     He  had 
great  moments  with  his  mind,  for  he  was 
repaid  for  the  intensity  of  his  surrender 
of  other    occupations    and    interests    by 
thrilling     inspirations,  —  those      sudden 
liftings  of  the  man  into  the  clearness  and 
splendour  of  vision  which  the  mind  com 
mands  in  its  highest  moods.     He  who 
has  felt  that  exaltation  knows  not  only 
what  must  have  come  often  to  Words 
worth  when  the  hills  shone  round  him 
with  a  light  beyond  that  of  the  sun,  but 
has  touched  the  very  highest  bound  of 
human  experience.     A  mind  enriched  by 
long  contact  with  the  best  in  thought  and 
life,  and  cherished  by  loving  regard  for 
its  needs,  often  repays  in  a  single  hour 
the  devotion  of  a  lifetime.     Sometimes, 
beside  the    lamp    at    evening,  the    book 
closes    in    the    hand   because    the    mind 
39 


My  Study  Fire 

swiftly  flies  from  it  to  some  distant  and 
splendid  outlook ;  or,  on  the  solitary 
walk,  the  man  stands  still  with  beating 
heart  because  the  mind  has  suddenly  dis 
closed  another  and  diviner  landscape 
about  him. 

Wordsworth  found  imagination  and 
sentiment  in  his  mind,  as  did  the  beauti 
ful  singer  upon  whom  the  laurel  next 
descended ;  but  Charles  Lamb  had  the 
delights  of  wit.  No  men  are  on  better 
terms  with  their  minds  than  men  of  wit ; 
one  of  the  pleasures  which  they  give 
their  fellows  of  slower  movement  is  the 
enjoyment  which  comes  to  them  from 
their  own  unexpectedness.  Most  of  us 
know  what  we  shall  think  and  say  next ; 
or,  if  we  do  not  know,  we  have  no  reason 
to  anticipate  either  surprise  or  satisfac 
tion  from  that  part  of  the  future  which 
is  to  take  its  colour  from  our  thoughts 
and  words.  A  witty  man,  on  the  other 
hand,  never  knows  what  his  mind  will 
give  him  next;  it  is  the  unexpected 
which  always  happens  in  his  mental  his- 
40 


Enjoying  One's  Mind 

tory.     Watch  him  as  he  talks,  and  note 
his  delight  in  the  tricks  which  his  mind 
is  playing  upon  him.     He  is  as  much  in 
the  dark  as  his  auditors,  and  has  as  little 
inkling  of  the   turn   the  talk  will   take 
next.     His    real    antagonist    is    not    the 
man  who  sends  the  ball  back  to  him,  but 
his  own  mind,  which  he  is  humourously 
prodding,    and   which    is    giving    sharp 
thrusts     in     response.       Charles     Lamb 
found    as    much     delight    in     his     own 
quaintness  as  did  any  of  his  friends,  and 
was  as  much  surprised  by  those  inimi 
table    puns  which    stuttered    themselves 
into  speech  as  if  they  were  being  trans 
lated  out  of  some  wittier  language  than 
ours.     It    is    pleasant    to    think    of  the 
suppressed  fun  that  went  on  within  him 
on  the  high  seat  at  the    India    House. 
And  Sydney   Smith  was   another    bene 
ficiary    of    his    own    mind,    whose    way 
through  life  was  so  constantly  enlivened 
by  the  gayest  companionship  that  even 
the  drowsy  English   pulpit   of  his   time 
had  little  power  to  subdue  his  spirits  or 
41 


My  Study  Fire 

dull  the  edge  of  his  wit.  Who  that  has 
talked  with  Dr.  Holmes  has  not  wit 
nessed  that  charming  catastrophe  which 
befalls  a  man  when  his  mind  runs  away 
with  him  and  dashes  into  all  manner 
of  delightful  but  unsuspected  roads,  to 
bring  back  the  listener  at  last  with  a 
keen  consciousness  that  there  is  a  good 
deal  of  undiscovered  country  about  him, 
and  that  he  was  a  dull  fellow  not  to  have 
known  it  before.  The  trouble  is  that  he 
can  never  get  himself  run  away  with  in 
like  fashion  !  And  yet  most  of  us  would 
be  more  inspiring,  more  entertaining,  and 
much  wittier  if  we  gave  ourselves  a 
chance  to  get  on  terms  of  intimacy  with 
our  own  minds.  Old  Dyer  had  found, 
three  centuries  ago,  the  delights  of  this 
fellowship  when  he  sang : 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is  : 
Such  present  joys  therein  I  find, 

That  it  excels  all  other  bliss 

That  earth  affords  or  grows  by  kind ; 

Though  much  I  want  which  most  would  have, 

Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 
42 


Chapter  VI 

A  Neglected  Gift 

SYDNEY  SMITH  undoubtedly  said 
aloud  what  a  great  many  people 
were  saying  in  an  undertone  when  he 
called  Macaulay"an  instrument  of  social 
oppression."  The  brilliant  historian 
and  essayist  had  notable  gifts,  and  has 
done  much  for  the  solace  and  entertain 
ment  of  mankind  ;  but  his  memory  must 
have  had  an  appalling  aspect  for  those 
who  sat  near  him  at  a  dinner- table.  It 
was  relentlessly  accurate,  and  the  boun 
daries  of  it  seemed  to  fade  out  in  an 
infinity  of  miscellaneous  information. 
The  man  who  knew  his  Popes  so  well 
that  he  could  repeat  them  backward, 
stood  in  sore  need  of  the  grace  of  for- 
getfulness  to  save  him  from  becoming 
a  scourge  to  his  kind.  The  glittering 
eye  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  did  not 
43 


My  Study  Fire 

hold  the  wedding  guest  more  mercilessly 
to  his  gruesome  narrative  than  does  a 
tyrannical  memory  bind  the  weary  lis 
tener  to  the  recital  of  things  it  "cannot 
forget.  Burton  analysed  Melancholy 
with  great  subtlety  and  particularity,  but 
one  wonders  whether  Burton's  compan 
ionship  would  not  have  induced  in  an 
other  the  very  thing  of  which  he  tried 
to  rid  himself.  Mr.  Caxton  was  a  dan 
gerous  person  in  his  talking  moods,  as 
Pisistratus  discovered  at  an  early  age, 
and  needed  to  be  diverted  from  themes 
which  unlocked  the  stores  of  his  knowl 
edge.  For  some  men  hold  their  infor 
mation  in  great  masses  like  the  snow  on 
the  high  Alps,  and  an  unwary  step  will 
often  bring  down  an  avalanche.  Knowl 
edge  is  of  great  moment  and  of  lasting 
interest,  but,  like  money,  it  must  be 
used  with  tact  and  skill.  A  good  library 
has  a  solid  foundation  of  books  of  ref 
erence  ;  but  they  are  subordinate  to  a 
superstructure  of  art,  grace,  vitality,  and 
truth. 

44 


A  Neglected  Gift 

If  one  had  to  choose  between  Ma- 
caulay,  who  never  forgot  anything,  and 
Emerson,  who  rarely  remembered  any 
thing  in  an  exact,  literal  way,  one  would 
fasten  upon  the  man  of  insight,  and  let 
the  man  of  memory  go  his  own  way. 
In  these  days  the  art  of  memorizing  has 
had  great  attention,  but  the  art  of  for 
getting  has  no  professed  masters  or 
teachers.  It  is,  nevertheless,  one  of 
the  most  important  and  charming  of  the 
arts ;  the  art  of  arts,  indeed.  For  the 
skill  of  the  artist  is  in  his  ability  to  for 
get  the  non-essentials  and  to  remember 
the  essentials.  The  faculty  of  forgetting 
gives  the  mind  a  true  perspective,  and 
shows  past  events  in  their  just  propor 
tions  and  right  relations.  The  archae 
ological  painter  forgets  nothing,  and  his 
picture  leaves  us  cold ;  the  poetic  painter 
forgets  everything,  save  the  two  or  three 
significant  things,  and  his  picture  sets  our 
imagination  aflame.  There  is  entertain 
ment  in  old  Burton,  because  the  man 
sometimes  gets  the  better  of  his  mem- 
45 


My  Study  Fire 

ory  ;  there  is  inspiration  in  Emerson, 
because  the  man  speaks  habitually  as  if 
all  things  were  new-created,  and  there 
were  nothing  to  remember.  The  past  is 
a  delightful  friend  if  one  can  live  with 
out  it,  but  to  the  man  who  lives  in  it 
there  is  no  greater  tyrant. 

As  the  world  grows  older,  the  power 
to  forget  must  grow  with  it,  or  mankind 
wil  bend,  like  Atlas,  under  a  weight 
which  put  movement  out  of  the  question. 
That  only  which  illumines,  enlarges,  or 
cheers  men  ought  to  be  remembered  ; 
everything  else  ought  to  be  forgotten. 
The  rose  in  bloom  has  no  need  of  the 
calyx  whose  thorny  shielding  it  has  out 
grown.  When  the  recollection  of  the 
past  stimulates  and  inspires,  it  has 
immense  value;  when  its  splendours 
make  us  content  to  rest  on  ancestral 
achievements,  it  is  a  sore  hindrance. 
Filial  piety  holds  the  names  of  the 
fathers  sacred;  but  we  are  living  our 
lives,  not  theirs,  and  it  is  far  more  im 
portant  that  we  should  do  brave  and  just 
46 


A  Neglected  Gift 

deeds  than  that  we  should  remember 
that  others  have  done  them.  The  burn 
ing  of  the  Alexandrian  Library  was  not 
without  its  compensations,  and  the  rate 
at  which  books  are  now  multiplied  may 
some  day  compel  such  burnings  at  stated 
intervals,  for  the  protection  of  an  op 
pressed  race.  The  books  of  power  are 
always  few  and  precious,  and  long  life  is 
decreed  for  them  by  reason  of  the  very 
vitality  which  gives  them  their  place ; 
but  the  books  of  information  must  be 
subjected  to  a  principle  of  selection, 
more  and  more  rigorously  applied  as  the 
years  go  by.  Our  posterity  must  con 
scientiously  forget  most  of  the  books  we 
have  written. 

For  the  characteristic  of  art  —  the 
thing  that  survives  —  is  not  memory,  but 
insight.  Our  chief  concern  is  to  know 
ourselves,  not  our  forbears  ;  and  to  mas 
ter  this  modern  world,  not  the  world  of 
Caesar  or  that  of  Columbus.  The  great 
writer  speaks  out  of  a  personal  contact 
with  life,  and  while  he  may  enrich  his 
47 


My  Study  Fire 

report  by  apt  and  constant  reference  to 
the  things  that  have  been,  his  authority 
rests  on  his  own  clarity  of  vision  and 
directness  of  insight.  "  Our  age/'  says 
Emerson,  "is  retrospective.  It  builds 
the  sepulchres  of  the  fathers.  It  writes 
biographies,  histories,  and  criticism. 
The  foregoing  generations  beheld  God 
and  nature  face  to  face;  we,  through 
their  eyes.  Why  should  not  we  also 
enjoy  an  original  relation  to  the  uni 
verse?  Why  should  not  we  have  a 
poetry  and  philosophy  of  insight  and  not 
tradition,  and  a  religion  by  revelation  to 
us,  and  not  the  history  of  theirs  ?  Em 
bosomed  for  a  season  in  nature,  whose 
floods  of  life  stream  around  and  through 
us,  and  invite  us,  by  the  powers  they 
supply,  to  action  proportioned  to  nature, 
why  should  we  grope  among  the  dry 
bones  of  the  past,  or  put  the  living  gen 
eration  into  masquerade  out  of  its  faded 
wardrobe  ?  The  sun  shines  to-day  also. 
There  is  more  wool  and  flax  in  the 
fields.  There  are  new  lands,  new  men, 
48 


A  Neglected  Gift 

new  thoughts.     Let  us  demand  our  own 
works  and  laws  and  worship." 

Progress  is  largely  conditioned  on  the 
ability  to  forget  the  views  and  conclu 
sions  which  have  become  authoritative. 
It  took  nearly  a  century  of  adventurous 
sailing  and  perilous  adventure  to  per 
suade  Europe  that  there  was  an  undis 
covered  continent  between  India  and  its 
own  shores,  —  so  possessed  was  the 
European  mind  by  the  consistent  blun 
ders  of  the  past  about  this  Western  hem 
isphere.  In  the  history  of  art,  what  are 
called  the  classical  epochs —  the  periods 
of  precision,  accuracy,  and  conventional 
restraint  —  are  inspired  by  memory ;  but 
the  creative  moments  are  moments  of 
forgetful  ness.  The  Renaissance  was  a 
moment  of  rediscovery,  not  of  memory ; 
the  literary  movement  of  this  century 
involved  a  determined  forgetting  of  the 
standards  and  methods  of  the  last  cen 
tury.  The  age  that  lives  in  its  memory 
of  other  times  and  men  is  always  timid 
and  imitative ;  the  age  that  trusts  its 
4  49 


My  Study  Fire 

own  insight  is  always  audacious  and 
creative.  If  we  are  to  be  ourselves,  we 
must  forget  a  good  deal  more  than  we 
remember. 

There  is  a  real  grace  of  character  in 
forgetting  the  things  that  disturb  the  har 
mony  of  life.  A  keen  remembrance  of 
injustice  or  suffering  breeds  cynicism ; 
the  power  to  forget  that  we  have  been 
wronged,  or  that  life  has  pressed  heavily 
upon  us,  develops  sweetness,  ripeness, 
and  harmonious  strength.  On  the 
threshold  of  any  future  life,  one  must 
pass  through  a  great  wave  of  forgetful- 
ness  ;  it  were  better  for  us  all  if  heaven 
were  nearer  to  us  by  reason  of  the  swift 
oblivion  to  which  we  consigned  the 
wrongs  we  suffer  in  this  brief  burning 
of  the  candle  of  life. 


Chapter  VII 

Concerning  Culture 

THERE  are  certain  books  which  are 
touchstones  of  personal  culture 
and  taste,  —  books  like  Amiel's  "  Jour 
nal,"  Arnold's  "  Culture  and  Anarchy," 
Landor's  "  Hellenics,"  and  Thackeray's 
cc  Henry  Esmond,"  which  involve  a  cer 
tain  preparation  of  the  mind  for  their 
reception  and  appreciation.  For  these 
books,  and  all  books  of  their  peculiar 
quality,  contain  an  element  of  culture  as 
well  as  of  native  gift ;  and  a  certain 
degree  of  culture  must  precede  their  ap 
propriation  by  the  reader.  It  used  to  be 
said  that  the  odes  of  Horace  were  the 
special  solace  of  gentlemen,  —  of  men  of 
a  certain  social  training,  which  brought 
them  into  sympathetic  contact  with  the 
worldly  minded  but  charmingly  trained 


My  Study  Fire 

poet  of  the  Mantuan  farm.  There  is  a 
flavour  as  of  old  wine  in  many  of  the 
Horatian  odes,  and  its  delicacy  is  dis 
cerned  only  by  the  trained  palate.  In 
like  manner  the  work  of  certain  modern 
writers  possesses  a  peculiar  quality,  im 
possible  to  define  but  readily  detected, 
which  finds  its  full  recognition  by,  and 
discloses  its  entire  charm  to,  minds  which 
have  had  contact  with  the  best  in  thought 
and  life. 

There  was  a  time,  fifteen  or  twenty 
years  ago,  when  what  is  technically  called 
culture  was  taken  up  by  the  intellectually 
curious  and  the  socially  idle,  and  made  a 
fad ;  and,  like  all  other  fads,  it  became, 
for  the  time  being,  a  thing  abhorred  of 
all  serious-minded  and  sincere  people. 
For  a  fad  is  always  a  sham,  and  a  sham 
in  the  world  of  art  or  of  literature  is 
peculiarly  offensive  and  repugnant ;  it  is 
the  perversion,  sometimes  in  the  grossest 
form,  of  something  essentially  sound  and 
noble.  The  ideal  which  took  violent 
possession  of  so  many  people  two  decades 
52 


Concerning  Culture 

ago  was  defective  in  that  quality  which  is 
the  very   substance   of  genuine   culture, 
the  quality  of  ripeness.     True  culture  in 
volves  a  maturing  of  taste,  intellect,  and 
nature,  which  comes  only  with  time,  tran 
quillity,  and  reposeful  associations  of  the 
best  sort.    The  more  one  really  cares  for 
it,  the  less  he  professes  it ;  the  more  one 
comes  into  possession  of  it,  the  less  con 
scious  does  his  pursuit  of  it  become.     It 
marks  an    advanced    stage  of  a  general 
maturing  and  ripening,  and  it  discloses  its 
presence  in  fulness   of  knowledge,  easy 
command  of  resources,  maturity  and  sure- 
ness  of  taste,  and  that  sense   of  power 
which  conveys  the  impression  of  a  large 
and  spontaneous  force  playing  through  a 
rich  nature. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  this 
ripening  of  the  man  depends  on  a  large 
acquaintance  with  books,  although  ^in 
these  days,  in  most  cases,  books  are  in 
dispensable  aids.  The  Attic  Greeks,  the 
most  genuinely  cultivated  people  whom 
the  world  has  yet  known,  had  very  slight 
53 


My  Study  Fire 

contact  with  books;  but  they  had  the 
faculty,  due  largely  to  the  strain  of  poetry 
and  hence  of  imagination  in  their  educa 
tion,  of  getting  the  soul  out  of  life.  They 
discerned  and  appropriated,  by  a  training 
which  had  become  instinctive,  the  best  in 
life.  They  chose  the  beautiful  as  readily 
and  constantly  as  we  choose  the  inharmo 
nious  and  the  ugly ;  they  built  in  har 
mony  with  the  laws  of  art  as  uniformly 
as  we  build  in  violation  of  those  laws. 
Their  Parthenon  was  as  easy  of  accom 
plishment  to  them  as  the  post-offices  of 
Boston,  New  York,  and  Chicago  were  to 
us.  They  did  not  build  better  than  they 
knew  ;  they  built  because  they  knew,  and 
their  knowledge  was  due  to  their  culture. 
That  culture  was  based  on  life,  not  on 
art,  and  hence  their  art  had  the  compel 
ling  note  of  an  original  utterance,  and  not 
the  faint  music  of  an  echo. 

Shakespeare    was   a    typical    man    of 

culture,  whose  knowledge  of  a  few  books 

is  beyond  question,  but  whose  knowledge 

of  many  books  is  more  than  doubtful. 

54 


Concerning  Culture 

Oxford  might  have  enriched  him,  as  it 
did  his  great  contemporary  Spenser,  but 
he  enriched  himself  under  circumstances 
apparently  the  most  adverse.  There  is 
no  rawness  in  his  thought,  nor  in  his  art; 
his  insight  is  not  surer  than  his  touch 
upon  language.  In  every  play  there  is 
the  richness  of  substance,  the  fulness  of 
thought,  the  easy  hand  upon  all  the  keys 
of  speech,  which  betray  the  affluent 
nature,  ripened  beyond  strength  into 
sweetness.  Shakespeare  was  riper,  in 
some  ways,  than  Goethe,  whose  whole 
life  was  rigidly  subordinated  to  the  laws 
of  growth. 

This  quality  of  ripeness,  shared  by 
Tennyson,  Lowell,  Amiel,  Arnold,  is 
sometimes  lacking  in  writers  of  great 
force  and  originality,  and  its  absence  al 
ways  involves  a  certain  impoverishment. 
If  there  is  no  obvious  crudity,  there  is  a 
certain  thinness  of  tone,  a  rigidity  of 
manner,  a  hardness  of  spirit.  The  ease, 
the  grace,  the  charming  unconsciousness, 
are  absent ;  one  is  continually  aware  of 
55 


My  Study  Fire 

limitations,  instead  of  being  cheered  and 
buoyed  up  by  a  sense  of  unexhausted 
power.  Lowell  gives  his  readers  no 
greater  delight  than  the  impression,  con 
veyed  by  every  page  of  his  writing,  that 
he  has  not  said  half  he  has  in  mind. 
The  landscape  of  thought,  imagination, 
and  knowledge  through  which  he  takes 
one,  with  a  gait  so  easy  and  a  humour  so 
contagious,  is  full  of  variety  and  loveli 
ness,  but  you  are  continually  teased  by 
vistas  which  hint  at  outlooks  still  more 
beautiful.  What  grace  of  bearing,  mod 
ulation  of  tone,  charm  of  manner,  entire 
self-possession  !  Here  is  no  gifted  and 
virile  provincial  who  has  broken  away 
from  hard  conditions  without  rising 
above  them,  but  a  true  man  of  the  world 
of  letters.  This  Olympian  ease,  which  is 
the  mark  of  the  artist,  is  never  the  pos 
session  of  the  Titan,  however  strong. 

It  is  culture  which  conveys  this  im 
pression    and    confers    this    charm,    and 
culture    does    not    come    by    nature ;    it 
does     not     come    by    work    even,    for 
56 


Concerning  Culture 

strenuousness  is  the  very   thing  it  rids 
a  man  of;  it  comes  of  lying  fallow  and 
letting  knowledge  take  possession  of  us. 
It  is  possible  to  know  a  great  deal  and 
be  wholly  without  culture ;  some  scholars 
are  as  free  from  all  trace  of  it  as   some 
well-conditioned  men  are  of  the  charm 
of  good-manners.       Culture    is    knowl- 
edcre  become  part  of  the  soil  of  a  man's 
life5;  it  is  not  knowledge  piled  up  like  so 
many  pieces  of  wood.     It  is  knowledge 
absorbed  and  transmuted  by  meditation 
into  character.       And    this    process    in 
volves  leisure,    solitude,    the   ability    to 
keep    one's     hands     and    eyes     idle    at 
times.       To     get     out    of    the    current 
without    losing    its    momentum    is    the 
problem  of  the  man  who  wishes  to  be 
ripe  as  well  as  active.     To  possess  one's 
mind,  one  must  command  a  certain  soli 
tude  and  quiet ;  for  there  is  deep  truth 
in  Goethe's  saying  that  while  character  is 
formed  in  the  stream  of  the  world,  talent 
is  formed  in  quietness.      That  ripeness 
of   nature  which    Americans    are  quick 
57 


My  Study  Fire 

to   notice  in   the    best   English    writers, 
scholars,  and  thinkers  is  the  result  of  a 
rich  meditative  strain    running  through 
lives  of  steadfast  but  unhasting  industry. 
A  bit  of  knowledge  cannot  enrich  a  man 
until  he  has  brooded  over  it  in  the  soli 
tude  of  quiet   hours.     An  Oxford  man 
once  said  that  the  perfection  of  the  lawns 
in  the  college  gardens  was  only  a  matter 
of  three  or  four  centuries  of  rolling  and 
cutting;  and  the   faces  of  some  famous 
university  writers  and  thinkers  betray  the 
long  years  rich,  not  only  in  study,  but  in 
meditation, — that  quiet    brooding  over 
knowledge  and  experience  which  drains 
them  of  their  significance  and  power  for 
the    lasting    enrichment     of    our    own 
natures. 


Chapter   VIII 

The  Magic  of  Talk 

THOSE  who  have  the  privilege  of 
hearing  really  good  talk  know  that 
it  is  the  most  delightful  of  all  the  resources 
which  the  fortunate  man  commands.  A 
genuine  talk,  free,  spontaneous,  sincere, 
and  full  of  intelligence,  is  always  a  thing 
to  be  remembered.  It  is  a  delight  to  the 
mind  so  keen  as  to  be  almost  sensuous ; 
but  it  is  a  joy  which  effects  a  certain  lib 
eration  in  those  who  share  it.  A  talk  is 
often  the  starting-point  in  a  brilliant  or 
commanding  career.  Everybody  recalls 
Hazlitt's  account  of  his  earliest  hours 
with  Coleridge,  and  how  the  magic  of 
that  rare  mind  wrought  upon  him  until 
it  seemed  as  if  he  had  broken  into  a  new 
world.  The  originative  impulse  which 
makes  a  man  conscious  of  his  power 
59 


My  Study  Fire 

and  confident  in  it  sometimes  comes 
from  a  book,  but  oftener  from  a  talk. 
For  a  talk  has  the  great  advantage  over 
a  book  of  bringing  the  whole  man  into 
play.  There  is  a  flow  of  individual  force, 
a  free  outgoing  of  personal  energy,  in  talk, 
which  give  not  only  the  full  weight  of 
the  thought,  but  the  entire  impetus  of  the 
man  ;  and  to  listen  to  a  rare  man  in  full 
and  free  talk  is  not  only  to  get  the  meas 
ure  of  his  mind,  but  to  feel  the  charm 
of  his  temperament ;  and  temperament  is 
half  of  genius. 

There  is  an  impression  that  writers 
put  their  best  thought  into  books ;  but 
those  who  know  the  makers  of  books 
care,  as  a  rule,  more  for  the  men  than 
for  the  work  they  have  done.  There 
are,  it  is  true,  a  few  men  from  whom  the 
gift  of  familiar  and  telling  speech  is  with 
held,  and  whose  thought  flows  freely  only 
from  the  point  of  the  pen.  Such  men 
are  so  rare,  however,  that  they  confirm 
the  almost  universal  possession  of  the 
genius  for  talk  by  men  who  hold  genius 
60 


The  Magic  of  Talk 

in  any  other  form.  As  a  rule,  the  talk 
of  men  of  letters  is  superior  to  their  writ 
ing,  and  possesses  a  charm  which  their 
work  fails  to  convey.  A  man  of  real 
strength  is  always  greater  than  any  spe 
cific  putting  forth  of  that  strength  ;  and 
the  moments  which  make  us  aware  of 
the  general  force  give  us  also  the  ad 
equate  expression  of  the  man's  range  and 
talent.  Most  men  of  rich  and  trained 
personality  fail  of  complete  expression  in 
any  formal  way,  and  it  is  a  common  feel 
ing  among  the  friends  of  men  whose  writ 
ing  attracts  wide  attention  that  it  does  not 
completely  express  the  man.  There  was 
something  in  the  force  and  directness  of 
Tennyson's  talk  which  did  not  make  it 
self  felt  in  his  melodious  verse ;  and,  in 
spite  of  the  poet's  noble  achievement,  it 
is  easy  to  understand  the  feeling  of  Fitz 
gerald  that  the  Laureate  never  put  his 
whole  power  forth.  This  was  notably 
true  of  Lowell,  whose  opulence  of  intel 
lectual  resource  and  whose  peculiarly  rich 
and  attractive  personality  gave  his  work, 
61 


My  Study  Fire 

to  many  who  knew  the  man,  the  air  of 
brilliant  improvisation  rather  than  the 
final  and  masterful  utterance  of  his 
affluent  nature.  Doubtless  the  friends 
of  Shakespeare,  the  greatest  of  all  im- 
provisers,  and  apparently  the  most  in 
different  to  the  fate  of  his  work,  had  a 
kindred  feeling  concerning  the  plays  and 
poems  of  one  whom  his  friends  and  earli 
est  editors  called  "so  worthy  a  friend  and 
fellow,"  "  whose  wit  can  no  more  lie  hid 
than  it  could  be  lost." 

We  shall  never  know  what  we  have 
lost  by  the  absence  of  a  Boswell  from 
the  Mermaid  Tavern  on  those  evenings 
when  Shakespeare,  in  those  last  rich 
years  of  his  life,  came  up  from  Stratford 
and  found  in  the  fellowship  of  his  old 
friends  that  solvent  which  gave  his  wit, 
his  imagination,  and  his  insight  the  liber 
ation  of  a  genial  hour  and  company. 
Shakespeare's  Boswell  would  probably 
have  written  the  most  deeply  interesting 
book  in  all  literature,  —  a  pre-eminence 
of  which  Boswell's  matchless  account  of 
62 


The  Magic  of  Talk 

Johnson  comes  within  measurable  dis 
tance.  Johnson  is,  indeed,  the  foremost 
illustration  of  the  general  truth  that  men 
of  letters  are  greater  than  their  works. 
The  author  of  <c  Rasselas  "  is  very  indif 
ferently  read  in  these  days,  but  the  great 
talker  at  the  Literary  Club  and  in  the 
library  at  Streatham  is  probably  the  best- 
known  figure  of  the  last  century.  The 
writer  was  solemnly  eloquent  in  that 
sonorous  Latin  style  of  his ;  but  the 
talker  had  a  force  and  freshness  which 
took  by  instinct  to  the  sturdy  Saxon 
side  of  the  language.  Great  writing  is 
never  artificial,  —  a  mode  of  speech  which 
differs  from  the  vernacular  as  a  carefully 
planned  lawn  differs  from  the  opulent 
carelessness  of  nature,  —  it  is,  rather,  the 
inevitable  form  of  expression  to  which 
a  thought  must  ultimately  come  when  it 
sinks  into  the  consciousness  of  a  race 
and  becomes  part  of  its  deepest  life.  The 
supreme  charm  of  talk  lies  in  its  unforced 
freshness  and  power ;  in  the  fact  that  the 
impulse  takes  a  man  unaware,  and  what 
6* 


My  Study  Fire 

is  deepest  and  truest  in  him  finds  its  way 
into  speech. 

The  community  of  feeling  which  talk 
brings  about  sets  the  most  sluggish  fancy 
free,  and  solicits  frankness  from  the  most 
reticent.  The  greatest  minds  are  not 
independent  of  their  fellows ;  on  the 
contrary,  the  measure  of  their  greatness 
is  accurately  recorded  in  the  extent  of 
their  obligations  to  others.  A  lyric  poet 
may  strike  a  few  clear  notes,  as  musical 
and  as  solitary  as  those  of  the  hermit 
thrush  hidden  in  the  woods  ;  but  the 
rich,  full  music  of  the  great  dramatic 
poet  draws  its  deep  and  victorious  sweet 
ness  from  the  universal  human  experi 
ence,  whose  meaning  it  conveys  and 
preserves.  The  touch  of  hand  upon 
hand  is  not  so  real  as  the  touch  of  mind 
upon  mind;  and  as  the  contact  of  the 
hands  gives  a  sense  of  sympathy  and 
fellowship,  so  does  the  contact  of  mind 
give  a  sense  of  kinship  of  thought.  To 
be  alone  is  to  be  silent ;  to  be  with  others 
is  to  express  that  which  silence  has  brought 
64 


The  Magic  of  Talk 

us.  Companionship  of  the  right  kind 
not  only  draws  our  hidden  thought  from 
its  seclusion,  but  invites  new  thoughts  to 
give  it  welcome  and  keep  it  company. 
The  first  half-hour  may  find  the  circle 
about  the  fire  still  somewhat  constrained 
and  slow  of  tongue;  for  we  people  of 
English  speech  do  not  give  ourselves 
freely  to  others;  but  the  second  half- 
hour  sees  everybody  intent  and  alert. 
There  is  a  contagious  quality  in  the  air, 
and  every  man  craves  his  moment  of 
speech.  When  talk  gets  down  to  the 
solid  ground  of  entire  truth  and  sincerity 
in  those  who  share  it,  a  capitalisation  of 
knowledge  is  speedily  and  informally 
effected.  There  lies  in  each  mind  a 
piece  of  information,  and  in  every  mem 
ory  a  bit  of  experience,  which  are  freely 
contributed  to  the  general  fund. 

The  thought-product  or  result  is, 
however,  but  a  small  part  of  the  total 
outcome  of  a  genuine  talk ;  under  such 
a  spell  men  speak  their  minds  freely, 
but  they  also  reveal  themselves.  There 
5  65 


My  Study  Fire 

is  a  gift  of  personal  quality  which  is 
more  rare  than  the  gift  of  thought.  The 
thought  of  a  great  nature  is  precious, 
but  the  way  in  which  it  approaches  the 
thought,  and  the  significance  it  attaches 
to  it,  are  still  more  valuable.  Shakespeare 
was  repeating  a  commonplace  when  he 
said,  "  We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are 
made  of,"  but  the  commonplace  became 
suddenly  luminous  and  beautiful  in  a  set 
ting  which  turned  its  alloy  into  pure  gold 
of  insight  and  poetry.  The  mystery  and 
sublimity  of  life  were  familiar  ideas  when 
they  took  possession  of  Carlyle's  imagi 
nation,  but  they  returned  from  it  flaming 
with  an  awful  splendour  which  men  had 
well-nigh  forgotten.  That  which  is  really 
rare  in  a  man  is  not  his  thought,  but 
himself;  and  it  is  this  self,  so  hidden,  so 
reticent,  so  marvellous,  that  somehow 
escapes  from  him  in  talk.  When  one 
thinks  of  Lowell,  he  does  not  recall 
"The  Cathedral,"  but  some  hour  before 
the  fire,  or  some  ramble  over  the  hills, 
when  the  man  behind  the  work  some- 
66 


The  Magic  of  Talk 

how  escaped  from  all  association  with  it, 
and   took    on   all    the   magic    of  a    new 
acquaintance,     added    to     the     steadfast 
power  of  an  old  friend  ;  and  of  Emerson 
it  is  pre-eminently  true  that  no  one  could 
really  know  him  who  had  not  come  under 
the  spell  of  his  singular  and  indescribable 
personality.    "  Emerson's  oration,"  wrote 
Lowell  to  a  friend  in   1867,  "was  more 
disjointed    than    usual,   even    with    him. 
It  began  nowhere  and  ended  everywhere, 
and  yet,  as  always  with  that  divine  man, 
it  left  you  feeling  that  something  beau 
tiful  had  passed  that  way,  —  something 
more  beautiful  than  anything  else,  like 
the  rising  and  setting  of  stars.   .   .  .   He 
boggled,  he  lost  his  place,  he  had  to  put 
on  his  glasses  ;  but  it  was  as  if  a  creature 
from  some  fairer  world  had  lost  his  way 
in  our  fogs,  and  it  was  our  fault,  not  his." 
His  works  have  a  quality  like  light,  and 
a  purity  as  of  snows  caught  in  the  high 
Alps;  but  the  man  was  still  clearer  and 
rarer, —  a  nature  not  to  be  reflected  in 
print,  however  skilfully  ordered.     It  is 
67 


My  Study  Fire 

this  by-play  of  personality  which  gives 
talk  a  charm  beyond  all  other  forms  of 
uttered  speech.  The  literature  one  hears 
sometimes  seems  so  much  richer  than 
the  literature  one  reads  that  there  comes 
with  the  rarest  privilege  regret  that  so 
much  wealth  is  being  spent  on  a  few. 
Nature  is  always  prodigal,  however,  and 
the  supreme  function  of  life  is  to  produce 
great  natures  lather  than  great  books. 
There  is,  moreover,  a  great  hope  hidden 
in  this  lavish  indifference  to  the  particular 
work  and  this  steady  emphasis  on  the 
superiority  of  the  worker. 


Chapter  IX 

Work  and  Art 

THE  most  mysterious  and  irritating 
quality  in  a  work  of  art  is  the  im 
pression    of 'ease    which    it    conveys;   it 
seems  to  have  been  a  piece  of  play  ;  we 
cannot  associate  work  with  it.     Its  charm 
lies  in  its  detachment  from  this  workaday 
world,    and    its    suggestion    of  intimacy 
with  some  other  world  where  the  most 
perfect  things  are  done  with  a  prodigal 
easefulness.      Nobody     ever     happened 
upon  Nature  in  her  working  hours ;  ap 
parently  she  is  always  at  leisure.     There 
is  an  illusion,  however,  in  this  apparent 
ease,  which  owes  its  power  of  deception 
to  our  limitations.     As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Nature  is  never  at  rest ;  she  is  always  at 
work ;  but  her  work  is  so  instinctive,  so 
entirely  within  the  range  of  her  force,  so 
69  ~ 


My  Study  Fire 

perfectly  expressive  of  the  energy  behind 
it,  that  it  is,  in  the  deepest  sense,  play. 
There  is  no  compulsion  behind  it,  no 
shrinking  from  it,  no  strain  in  it;  it  is 
quiet,  easeful,  normal,  and  adequate. 
The  artist  finds  Nature  a  teacher  in  this 
as  in  other  matters,  and  learns  that  the 
eternal  charm  of  beauty  lies  in  its  com 
plete  severance  from  all  trace  of  work. 
It  is  a  bit  of  pure  delight  which  comes 
to  us  from  the  few  lines  in  which  the 
lyric  poet,  with  winning  simplicity,  re 
cords  an  impression  or  confides  an  expe 
rience,  or  from  the  few  inches  of  canvas 
on  which  the  artist  preserves  a  swift 
glance  at  the  landscape  growing  vague 
and  mysterious  in  the  twilight.  The 
faintest  odour  of  the  lamp  would  empty 
the  lines  of  their  magic ;  a  hint  of  toil 
would  destroy  the  illusion  of  a  power 
behind  the  picture  similar  in  kind,  how 
ever  inferior  in  degree,  to  that  behind 
the  landscape. 

Behind  every  bit  of  genuine  art  there 
lies    a    training,    always   arduous,   some- 
70' 


Work  and  Art 

times  rigorous  to  the  point  of  pain. 
There  is  no  greater  popular  fallacy  than 
the  impression  that  men  of  letters  and 
artists  of  all  kinds  are  men  of  leisure. 
They  are,  on  the  contrary,  men  whose 
work  never  ends,  and  whose  mastery  is 
not  only  secured,  but  sustained,  at  im 
mense  cost  of  time,  strength,  thought, 
emotion,  and  will.  The  grace  which 
banishes  the  thought  of  toil  was  bought 
at  a  great  price ;  it  is  a  flower  whose 
roots  have  often  been  watered  by  tears. 
Its  perfection  lies  in  its  effacement  of 
the  cc  painful  steps  and  slow "  by  which 
it  has  been  reached ;  so  that  its  highest 
success  involves  the  complete  forgetful- 
ness  of  the  toil  behind.  The  artist 
whose  touch  on  the  keys  has  a  magical 
ease  which  revives  our  childhood's  faith 
in  the  world  of  the  "  Arabian  Nights  " 
is  a  heroic  worker,  who  pays  for  his  suc 
cess  a  price  from  which  most  men  of 
affairs  would  shrink  back  appalled.  The 
writer  whose  hand  rests  so  lightly  on  the 
strings  of  speech,  and  makes  them  sing 
71 


My  Study  Fire 

or  thunder  with  such  indifferent  ease, 
knows  that  "  torment  of  style "  which 
pursued  Flaubert  all  his  days,  —  that 
painful  pursuit  of  free,  sincere,  and  noble 
expression,  which  is  so  constantly  baffled, 
and  so  rarely  touches  the  elusive  goal. 
Two  thousand  and  more  sketches  give  a 
faint  idea  of  the  herculean  toil  behind 
Michel  Angelo's  "Last  Judgment." 

From  this  toil  genius  is  no  more  ex 
empt  than  talent;  for  perfection  never 
comes  by  instinct ;  it  is  always  the  final 
expression  of  a  perfectly  harmonised 
nature.  Shakespeare  had  his  years  of 
apprenticeship  not  less  necessary  and 
arduous  than  those  of  Gray ;  and  Millet 
paid  a  great  price  for  that  marvellous 
skill  of  his.  The  first  task  laid  upon 
the  artist  —  the  submission  to  the  law  of 
work  when  his  mind  is  fomenting  with 
all  manner  of  spontaneous  impulses  — 
is  so  hard  that  art  is  allied  forever  to 
morality  by  the  self-discipline  which  it 
involves  ;  but  the  second  task  —  the  ob 
literation  of  every  evidence  of  toil  —  is 
72 


Work  and  Art 

still  more  difficult.  It  is  at  this  point 
that  the  artist  reveals  himself.  He  sets 
out  with  a  goodly  company,  eager  for 
that  training  which  guards  the  gates  of 
artistic  achievement ;  but  he  is  wellnigh 
deserted  when  he  passes  on  into  the  next 
stage  and  begins  to  work  with  a  free 
hand.  Many  men  can  work  with  sus 
tained  and  noble  energy,  but  very  few 
men  can  transform  work  into  play  by 
coming  to  do  instinctively,  and  with  the 
ease  of  almost  unconscious  mastery,  that 
which  they  began  to  do  with  deliberation 
and  intention.  In  art  it  is  pre-eminently 
and  painfully  true  that  many  are  called 
but  few  are  chosen;  and  there  is  some 
thing  pathetic,  almost  tragic,  in  the  pains 
taking  and  tireless  toil  which  is  always 
climbing  but  which  never  plucks  the 
flower  of  ease.  For  this  reason  there  is 
a  great  gulf  set  between  the  amateur  and 
the  artist  which  is  never  crossed ;  for  the 
artist  is  the  servant  of  toil  that  he  may 
become  the  master  of  his  craft,  while  the 
amateur,  by  evading  the  service,  forever 
73 


My  Study  Fire 

forfeits  the  mastery.     It  is  this  last  gift 
of  ease  that  evidences  genius  and  shows 
that  the  workman  has  become  a  magician, 
—  one    who    knows   how    to    make    the 
flower  bloom  without  the  aid  of  botany, 
and    the    stars    shine    without    invoking 
astronomy.     He  who  once  did  things  as 
work  now  does  them  as  play,  and,  there 
fore,  in  the  creative  spirit  and  with  the 
creative  force  and  simplicity.     When  he 
was  an  apprentice  he   could  explain  his 
methods,  but  now  that  he  is  a  master  the 
thing  he  does  with  consummate  skill  and 
with  such  a  touch  of  finality  is  as  much 
a  mystery  to  him  as  to  others ;  it  is  no 
longer  a  contrivance,  it  is  the   deep  and 
beautiful    product  of  his    whole    nature 
working  together  with    that  mysterious 
force  that  resides  in  a  rich  personality. 

There  is  something  baffling  in  the 
quality  of  these  final  touches  in  art. 
Why  should  these  few  lines  on  paper, 
this  bit  of  marble,  this  little  group  of 
verses,  stand  apart  from  the  toiling  world 
as  if  they  belonged  to  another  order  of 
74 


Work  and  Art 

life  and  had  their  affinities  with  the 
things  that  grow  and  bloom  rather  than 
with  those  that  are  made  and  perish  in 
the  making  ?  Why  should  a  civilisation 
fade  out  of  human  memory,  and  the  del 
icate  vase  or  the  fragile  lyric  survive  ? 
The  answer  to  these  questions  is  found 
in  Alfred  de  Musset's  deep  saying,  "It 
takes  a  great  deal  of  life  to  make  a  little 
art."  In  this  vast  workshop  of  life,  with 
its  dust  and  sweat  and  din,  it  is  the 
worker  that  is  perfected  oftener  than  the 
work ;  and  when  some  bit  of  perfection 
emerges  from  the  dust  and  turmoil,  it 
not  only  explains  and  justifies  the  toil 
behind  it,  but  takes  on  a  beauty  which 
is  half  a  prophecy. 

A  civilisation  is  not  lost  if,  beyond 
the  mysterious  training  of  men  which  it 
silently  effects,  it  leaves  behind  a  few 
final  touches,  strokes,  and  songs  as  a 
bequest  to  that  art  which,  by  its  very 
perfection,  is  the  visible  evidence  of 
immortality.  For  when  the  worker  so 
masters  his  material  that  skill  is  no 
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My  Study  Fire 

longer  mechanical  but  vital,  no  longer 
wholly  calculated  but  largely  instinctive, 
he  becomes  the  instrument  of  a  genius 
greater  than  his,  and  the  channel  of  a 
truth  deeper  than  any  he  has  compassed. 
He  escapes  the  limitations  of  the  artisan 
and  gains  the  freedom  of  the  artist  — 
to  whom  finality  of  expression  is  as  nat 
ural  as  the  gush  of  song  from  the  wood 
or  the  glow  of  light  in  the  east.  For 
the  highest  form  of  all  things  is  beauty ; 
and  art,  in  that  deep  sense  which  allies 
it  with  the  spontaneity,  the  ease,  the 
grace,  and  the  play  of  nature,  is  the 
finality  for  which  all  toil  prepares  and 
in  which  all  work  ends.  It  takes  cen 
turies  to  make  the  soil,  and  then,  born 
of  earth  and  nurtured  by  the  sky,  blooms 
the  flower,  without  care  or  toil,  mys 
terious  and  inexplicable,  —  the  touch  of 
the  imperishable  beauty  resting  for  an 
hour  on  its  fragile  petals. 


Chapter  X 

Joy  in  Life 

BROWNING'S  "Saul"  is  one  of 
those  superb  outbursts  of  poetic 
force  which  have  for  modern  ears,  accus 
tomed  to  overmuch  smooth,  careful,  and 
uninspired  versification,  not  only  the 
charm  of  beauty  and  energy  in  high 
degree,  but  of  contrast  as  well.  It 
sweeps  along,  eager,  impetuous,  resist 
less  as  the  streams  which  descend  the 
Alps  and  rush  seaward  with  the  joy  of 
mountain  torrents.  So  much  contem 
porary  verse  is  dainty,  melodious,  and 
unimpassioned  that  the  tumultuous 
music  of  a  virile  song,  overflowing  all 
the  shallow  channels  of  artifice,  and 
sweeping  into  the  deep  courses  of  human 
experience  and  emotion,  is  as  thrilling 
as  a  glimpse  of  the  sea  after  long  hours 
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My  Study  Fire 

on  some  pretty  lake  in  some  well-ordered 
park.  Great  art  of  any  kind  involves  a 
great  temperament  even  more  than  great 
intellect ;  since  the  essence  of  art  is 
never  intellectual,  but  always  the  com 
plete  expression  of  the  whole  nature. 
A  great  temperament  is  a  rarer  gift  than 
a  great  mind;  and  it  is  the  distinctive 
gift  of  the  artist.  Browning  had  the 
vitality,  the  freshness  of  feeling,  the 
eagerness  of  interest,  the  energy  of  spirit, 
which  witness  this  temperament.  He 
had  an  intense  joy  in  life  simply  as  life, 
in  nature  simply  as  nature,  without  ref 
erence  to  what  lay  behind.  For  one 
must  feel  freshly  and  powerfully  through 
the  senses  before  one  can  represent  the 
inner  meaning  of  life  and  nature  in  art. 
In  "Saul"  there  are  elements  of  pro 
found  psychologic  interest,  but  first  and 
foremost  there  is  the  intense  and  vivid 
consciousness  of  the  glory  of  life  for  a 
healthy  human  being,  and  of  the  splen 
dour  of  the  world.  Rarely  has  this 
superb  health  found  such  thrilling  ex- 


Joy  in  Life 

pression  as  on  the  lips  of  the  young 
poet  beguiling  the  furious  spirit  in  the 
mighty  Saul : 

Oh,    our    manhood's    prime    vigour !     No    spirit 

feels  waste, 
Not  a  muscle   is  stopped   in  its  playing  nor  sinew 

unbraced. 
Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living  !  the  leaping  from  rock 

up  to  rock, 
The  strong  rending  of  boughs  from  the  fir-tree,  the 

cool  silver  shock 
Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water,  the  hunt  of 

the  bear, 
And  the  sultriness  showing  the  lion  is  couched  in  his 

lair. 
And   the   meal,  the  rich  dates  yellowed   over  with 

gold-dust  divine, 
And  the  locust-flesh    steeped  in  the  pitcher,  the  full 

draught  of  wine, 

And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel  where  bul 
rushes  tell 
That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling  so  softly 

and  well. 
How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living  !  how  fit  to 

employ 
All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  forever  in 


79 


My  Study  Fire 

After  the  wailing  monotones  and  the 
chorus  of  lamentation  which  of  late  years 
have  risen  in  so  many  quarters,  such 
music  as  this  song  of  David's  thrills  the 
blood  like  a  bugle-call ;  and  such  a  vic 
torious  strain  was  the  natural  prelude  to 
the  great  vision  of  faith  in  which  the 
song  rises  to  its  noble  climax. 

Brilliancy  of  temperament  and  the 
freshness  and  spontaneity  of  feeling 
which  go  with  it  are  a  part  of  the  in 
heritance  of  such  men  as  Gautier,  whose 
virile  face,  with  its  great  shock  of  yellow 
hair,  had  at  times  a  leonine  aspect ;  but 
one  hardly  anticipates  the  possession  of 
such  gifts  by  a  sick  and  overburdened 
man  like  Richard  Jefferies,  who  was  so 
long  in  finding  his  field,  and  who,  when 
it  was  found,  had  so  short  a  working-day 
in  it.  This  temperament  is,  however,  in 
a  way,  independent  of  physical  condition  ; 
it  is  much  more  the  buoyancy  of  a  rich  na 
ture  than  the  surplusage  of  a  strong  phy 
sique.  In  his  last  years  Jefferies  rivalled 

Heine  in  the  intensity  of  his  sufferings, 
80 


Joy  in  Life 

but  to  the  very  end  he  answered  the 
appeal  of  nature  to  the  senses  with  pas 
sionate  longing.  In  such  men  vitality 
triumphs  over  all  moods  and  asserts  the 
sovereignty  of  life  even  while  life  is 
swiftly  receding  from  them.  Few  men 
have  known  the  black  shadows  on  the 
landscape  more  intimately  than  JefFeries, 
and  rarely  have  these  shadows  been  re 
flected  with  more  appalling  realism  than 
in  some  of  his  pages.  "  Our  bodies," 
he  says,  "  are  full  of  unsuspected  flaws, 
handed  down,  it  may  be,  for  thousands 
of  years,  and  it  is  of  these  that  we  die, 
and  not  of  natural  decay.  .  .  .  The  truth 
is,  we  die  through  our  ancestors ;  we  are 
murdered  by  our  ancestors.  Their  dead 
hands  stretch  forth  from  the  tomb  and 
drag  us  down  to  their  mouldering  bones." 
All  the  horror  of  Ibsen's  "  Ghosts  "  is 
condensed  in  that  last  sentence ;  it  falls 
on  the  ear  like  the  sudden  clang  of  the 
bell  on  the  ear  of  the  man  waiting  for  the 
guillotine. 

And  yet  JefFeries,  being  a  really  noble 
6  81 


My  Study  Fire 

artist  in  the  force  of  his  feeling  for  Nature 
and  his  power  of  recording  her  phenom 
ena  and  reflecting  her  moods,  had  the 
deep,  natural  joyousness  and  the  invin 
cible  vitality  of  the  artistic  temperament. 
He  was  sensitive  to  those  gradations  of 
colour  and  form  of  which  the  less  gifted 
observer  takes  no  account.  "  Colour  and 
form  and  light,"  he  says,  "  are  as  magic 
to  me ;  it  is  a  trance  ;  it  requires  a  lan 
guage  of  ideas  to  express  it.  ...  A  fagot, 
the  outline  of  a  leaf,  low  tints  without  re 
flecting  power,  strike  the  eye  as  a  bell  the 
ear.  To  me  they  are  intensely  clear,  and 
the  clearer  the  greater  the  pleasure.  It 
is  often  too  great,  for  it  takes  me  away 
from  solid  pursuits  merely  to  receive  the 
impression,  as  water  is  still  to  receive  the 
trees."  With  this  quick  impressionabil 
ity  there  goes  a  passionate  love  of  life 
and  a  passionate  longing  to  have  it  flow 
ing  through  him  like  a  tide  instead  of 
ebbing  with  an  ever- feebler  current.  In 
that  heart-breaking  book,  "The  Story 
of  My  Heart,"  this  longing  breaks 
82 


Joy  in  Life 

from  him   in   an  anguish   of  unsatisfied 
desire : 

There,  alone,  I  went  down  to  the  sea.  I 
stood  where  the  foam  came  to  my  feet,  and 
looked  out  over  the  sunlit  waters.  The  great 
earth  bearing  the  richness  of  the  harvest,  and 
its  hills  golden  with  corn,  was  at  my  back ; 
its  strength  and  firmness  under  me.  The 
great  sun  shone  above,  the  wide  sea  was  be 
fore  me,  the  wind  came  sweet  and  strong  from 
the  waves.  The  life  of  the  earth  and  the  sea, 
the  glow  of  the  sun,  filled  me ;  I  touched  the 
surge  with  my  hand,  I  lifted  my  face  to  the 
sun,  I  opened  my  lips  to  the  wind.  I  prayed 
aloud  in  the  roar  of  the  waves  —  my  soul  was 
strong  as  the  sea,  and  prayed  with  the  sea's 
might.  Give  me  fulness  of  life  like  to  the  sea 
and  sun, and  to  the  earth  and  the  air;  give  me 
fulness  of  physical  life,  mind  equal  and  beyond 
their  fulness ;  give  me  a  greatness  and  perfec 
tion  of  soul  higher  than  all  things;  give  me 
my  inexpressible  desire  which  swells  in  me 
like  a  tide  —  give  it  to  me  with  all  the  force 
of  the  sea ! 

To  some  people  this  outcry  for  abun 
dance  of  life  and  the  joy  of  the  senses  may 
83 


My  Study  Fire 

seem  like  a  pagan  mood ;  but  if  it  be,  it 
is  a  form  of  paganism  sadly  needed  in 
these  days  of  depression  and  debility. 
One  would  better  be  a  frank  and  healthy 
pagan  than  a  diseased  and  wailing  pessi 
mist  ;  for  paganism  had  its  faith,  its  ideals, 
and  its  glorious  productiveness,  while  a 
despairing  melancholy  has  nothing  but 
its  own  morbid  self-consciousness.  A 
return  to  the  right  kind  of  paganism 
might  deliver  us  from  some  of  the  evils 
which  have  ensnared  us.  But  the  es 
sence  of  the  longing  for  the  joy  of  the 
senses  and  for  fulness  of  life,  expressed 
in  so  many  ways  by  so  many  men  of 
artistic  nature,  is  not  sensuousness  but 
vitality ;  it  is  the  hunger  of  the  whole 
nature  for  a  deeper  draught  at  the  foun 
tain  whence  its  being  flows ;  and  its 
presence  in  the  artist  temperament  ex 
plains  its  presence  in  great  art.  For  the 
great  art  of  the  world  is  instinct  with 
vitality ;  it  overflows  with  life ;  it  is  full 
of  joy  and  strength.  Touching,  as  it 
does  so  constantly,  the  tragic  themes,  it 
84 


Joy  in  Life 

is  not  mastered  by  them,  but  interprets 
them  in  the  light  of  those  higher  laws 
whose  servants  we  are.  Shakespeare 
turns  away  from  no  tragic  situation,  and 
shrinks  from  no  tragic  problem ;  but  how 
serene  he  is,  and  what  marvellous  fresh 
ness  of  feeling  shines  through  his  work 
and  gives  it  the  touch  of  that  Nature 
whose  dews  fall  with  every  eve,  and 
whose  flowers  bloom  afresh  with  every 
dawn ! 


Chapter  XI 

The  Real  and  the  Sham 

THERE  is,  perhaps,  no  better  test 
of  mastership  in  any  kind  of  ar 
tistic  work  than  the  effacement  of  the 
method  by  which  the  result  is  secured. 
A  true  work  of  art  can  never  be  taken 
apart ;  it  is  a  living  whole,  and,  although 
much  may  be  said  about  it  by  way  of 
analysis  or  of  criticism,  it  is  impossible  to 
explain  how  it  was  put  together.  The 
same  distinction  exists  between  pedantry 
and  culture  ;  the  trail  of  the  pedant  can 
be  followed  through  his  library  back  to 
the  point  from  which  he  set  out;  he 
never  for  an  instant  gets  off  the  beaten 
path.  The  man  of  culture,  on  the  other 
hand,  suggests  his  methods  of  personal 
training  and  enrichment  no  more  than  he 
suggests  the  air  he  breathes.  He  is  so 
ripe  in  tone,  so  easily  in  command  of  his 
86 


The  Real  and  the  Sham 

resources,  and  so  sure  of  his  tenure  that 
there  is  no  touch  of  professionalism  about 
him.  His  personality  is  so  rich  and  so 
interesting  that  one  forgets  that  he  is  a 
writer  or  a  painter  or  an  orator.  Mr. 
Booth  found  genuine  pleasure  in  Mr. 
Sargent's  striking  portrait  because  it  is 
free  from  all  suggestion  of  the  stage ;  it 
is  the  portrait  of  a  man,  not  of  an  actor. 
And  Mr.  Booth  was  a  charming  example 
of  a  great  artist  devoid  of  the  atmosphere 
of  professionalism.  His  talk  touched 
naturally  on  incidents  and  themes  which 
appealed  to  him  by  reason  of  his  profes 
sion,  and  often  lingered  about  experiences 
which  had  been  part  of  his  arduous  and 
brilliant  career;  but  it  was  the  talk  of  a 
man  of  distinct  individuality  and  force, 
not  of  an  actor  fitted  into  the  grooves  of 
a  profession  and  moulded  entirely  to  its 
uses. 

The    phrase    "man    of  letters"  is    a 
happy  one,  because  it  emphasises  the  in 
dividual  quality  rather  than  the  form  of 
its  expression  ;  because  it  brings  the  man 
87 


My  Study  Fire 

rather  than  the  profession  before  us.  One 
of  the  signs  of  mastery  in  art  is  freedom 
from  mannerisms,  from  professional 
methods  of  securing  effects.  The  finest 
orators  have  no  set  manner;  the  most 
inspiring  preachers  are  free  from  the  cler 
ical  habit  and  air ;  the  greatest  writers  are 
the  most  difficult  to  imitate,  because  they 
offer  the  fewest  obvious  peculiarities. 
The  real  man  of  letters  is  always  a  man 
primarily,  and  a  writer  secondarily.  His 
fingers  are  not  blackened  with  ink,  and 
his  talk  is  devoid  of  that  kind  of  pedantry 
which  is  never  happy  unless  its  theme  is 
the  latest  book. 

The  love  of  literature  is  one  of  the 
noblest  of  human  passions,  but  it  has 
many  degrees,  and  it  is,  unfortunately, 
easily  imitated.  There  are  a  good  many 
men  and  women  who  take  up  literary  sub 
jects  and  interests  as  they  take  up  the  latest 
fashions, — putting  them  on,  so  to  speak, 
as  they  put  on  garments  of  the  latest  cut. 
There  are  so-called  literary  circles  as 
devoid  of  true  feeling  for  literature  as 
88 


The  Real  and  the  Sham 

the  untutored  tourist,  restlessly  rushing 
through  art  galleries  with  his  Baedeker  in 
his  hand,  is  devoid  of  any  real  insight 
into  art  or  love  for  it.  Writers  of  force 
and  originality  are  often  slow  in  coming 
to  their  own,  and  are  sometimes  suddenly 
discovered  by  the  many,  long  after  they 
have  been  well  known  to  the  few ;  but 
the  waves  of  interest  in  particular  writers 
which  sweep  over  society  are  a  hollow 
mockery  of  any  real  and  genuine  knowl 
edge.  To  rush  wildly  with  the  maddened 
throng  after  Browning  for  one  short 
winter,  to  be  diverted  the  next  season  by 
Ibsen,  is  to  carefully  destroy  all  hope  of 
coming  into  real  contact  with  either  of 
these  writers.  A  real  love  of  art  is  shy 
of  crowds,  and  wary  of  too  close  contact 
with  "circles;"  it  does  not  protest  too 
much ;  it  hates,  above  all  things,  that 
pretentious  use  of  technical  phrases  and 
that  putting  forward  of  the  latest  "dis 
covery  "  which  so  often  pass  as  literary 
conversation. 

The  spread  of  a  sincere,  unobtrusive, 
89 


My  Study  Fire 

and  teachable  interest  in  books  and  other 
forms  of  art  among  the  people  of  this 
country  is  a  thing  to  recognise  and  re 
joice  in  wherever  it  appears.  It  is  not 
the  crudity  of  undeveloped  interest  which 
is  to  be  dreaded,  but  the  crudity  of  sham 
interest ;  and  the  sham  element  is  to  be 
detected  by  its  simulation  of  that  which 
it  does  not  possess.  It  is  pretentious, 
and  therefore  it  is  essentially  vulgar.  It 
mistakes  talk  about  books  for  that  kind 
of  conversation  which  is  supposed  to  go 
on  among  literary  folk ;  it  dwells  long 
and  lovingly  on  personal  contact  with 
second  and  third  rate  authors ;  its  test  of 
literary  quality  is  the  professional  air  and 
manner.  It  gathers  its  small  verse-writers, 
whom  it  profanely  calls  poets,  listens  to 
their  smooth  and  hollow  lines,  applauds, 
drinks  its  tea,  and  goes  home  in  the 
happy  faith  that  it  has  poured  another 
libation  at  the  shrine  of  art.  There  is 
just  now,  and  there  probably  will  be  for 
some  time  to  come,  a  great  deal  of  this 
sham  love  of  literature  in  society;  it  is  to 
90 


The  Real  and  the  Sham 

be  hoped  that  a  sounder  culture  will  some 
day  make  an  end  of  it. 

For  the  real  love  of  books,  like  the 
real  genius  to  write  them,  cometh  not  by 
observation ;  its  roots  are  in  the  soul,  and, 
being  a  part  of  a  man's  deepest  nature, 
it  is  shy  of  any  expression  that  departs  a 
hair's  line  from  absolute  sincerity  and 
simplicity.  It  detests  the  signs  and  in 
signia  of  professionalism;  it  shrinks  from 
exploitation;  it  resents  the  profanation 
of  that  publicity  which  fastens  on  the 
manner  in  which  the  thing  is  done  rather 
than  on  its  aim  and  spirit.  The  world 
is  prone  to  love  wonders ;  it  cares  much 
more  for  the  miracle  than  for  the  power 
which  the  miracle  discloses,  or  the  truth 
which  it  reveals.  It  has  been  in  every 
age  the  anguish  of  the  worker  of  wonders 
that  he  was  sought  as  a  magician  rather 
than  as  a  revealer  of  the  mystery  of  life ; 
and  it  is  the  prevalence  of  this  spirit  which 
makes  the  man  of  real  artistic  spirit  so 
often  indifferent  to  contemporary  praise. 

The  simplicity  and  sincerity  of  a  great 


My  Study  Fire 

man  of  letters  have  rarely  been  more 
clearly  or  attractively  revealed  than  in 
the  recently  published  correspondence 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  enormous 
productivity  of  the  great  novelist  was 
conditioned  on  long  and  arduous  work ; 
it  would  seem  as  if  a  man  who  was  pour 
ing  out,  through  so  many  years,  an  un 
broken  stream  of  narrative  would  have 
become,  in  interest  and  habit  no  less 
than  in  occupation,  a  story-writer  and 
nothing  but  a  story-writer.  But  this  is 
precisely  what  Scott  did  not  become. 
The  smell  of  ink  is  never  upon  his  gar 
ments  ;  he  seems  to  care  for  everything 
under  the  Scotch  heavens  except  books. 
Professionalism  never  gets  the  better  of 
him,  and  he  goes  on  to  the  tragical  but 
noble  end  telling  stories  like  a  true-hearted 
man  rather  than  like  a  trained  raconteur. 
Other  and  lesser  men  may  squander 
body  and  soul  for  a  few  new  sensations, 
a  little  addition  to  literary  capital ;  Scott 
remains  sane,  simple,  and  wholesome  to 
the  last  day.  One  can  imagine  his  scorn 
92 


The  Real  and  the  Sham 

of  literary  fads,  and  of  those  who  follow 
them;  for  literature  was  to  him,  not  a 
matter  of  phrases  and  mannerisms  and 
social  conventions,  —  it  was  as  simple,  as 
native,  and  as  much  of  out-of-doors  as 
the  Highlands  whose  secrets  he  discov 
ered.  There  is  a  fine  unconsciousness 
of  any  special  gifts  or  calling  in  his 
letters  ;  he  writes  about  himself,  as  about 
all  other  things,  in  a  natural  key.  Upon 
the  appearance  of  "  St.  Ronan's  Well," 
in  1824,  Lady  Abercorn  tells  him  how 
greatly  the  book  has  affected  her.  "  I 
like  the  whole  book,"  she  says  ;  "  it,  like 
all  the  rest  of  those  novels,  makes  one 
feel  at  home,  and  a  party  concerned.  .  .  . 
Everybody  reads  these  novels,  and  talks 
of  them  quite  as  much  as  the  people  do 
in  England.  .  .  .  People  are  still  curious 
as  ever  to  find  out  the  Author."  And 
the  "Author,"  at  the  flood-tide  of  the 
most  magnificent  popular  success  in  the 
history  of  English  literature,  replies  at 
length,  touching  upon  the  novels  in  a 
purely  objective  and  semi-humourous 
93 


My  Study  Fire 

spirit,  and  then  goes  on  to  talk  about 
his  boy  Charles,  who  is  soon  to  leave  for 
Oxford ;  about  his  "  black-eyed  lassie," 
who  is  "  dancing  away  merrily  ; "  about 
his  nephew  Walter,  and  about  many 
other  personal  and  every-day  matters 
which  touch  the  man,  but  which  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  writing  of  books. 
The  soundness  of  the  Waverley  Novels 
comes  from  the  soundness  of  the  simple, 
brave,  true-hearted  Sir  Walter. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  to  Lockhart,  as 
he  lay  dying  that  September  day ;  "  my 
dear,  be  a  good  man."  There  is  a  tonic 
quality  in  such  unconsciousness  on  the 
part  of  a  man  so  opulent  in  some  of  the 
finest  literary  gifts,  —  a  man  of  childlike 
nature,  who  drew  his  wonderful  stories 
from  the  hills  rather  than  from  his  libra 
ries  ;  who  was  not  shaken  by  the  storm  of 
popularity  which  burst  upon  him,  nor 
dismayed  by  the  disaster  which  threw  its 
shadow  like  a  vast  eclipse  on  his  magical 
prosperity ;  a  great  writer,  who  was  first 
and  always  a  man.  It  is  well  to  seek 
94 


The  Real  and  the  Sham 

refuge  in  such  a  great  career  from  the 
passing  fashions  of  the  hour,  from  the 
exaggerations  of  unintelligent  and  capri 
cious  praise  of  commonplace  men,  and 
from  that  idle  following  of  art  which  has 
as  little  veracity  and  reality  in  it  as  the 
rush  and  huzza  of  the  crowd  about  the 
local  statesman  returned  to  his  ward  after 
a  brief  foreign  tour. 


95 


Chapter  XII 

Lightness  of  Touch 

ONE  of  the  happiest  evidences  that 
work  has  become  play,  and  the 
strenuous  temper  of  the  artisan  has 
given  place  to  the  artist's  ease  of  mood, 
is  that  peculiar  lightness  of  touch  which 
is  so  elusive,  so  difficult,  and  yet  so  full 
of  the  ultimate  charm  of  art.  Does  not 
Professor  J.  R.  Seeley  miss  the  point 
when  he  says  :  cc  Literature  is  perhaps  at 
best  a  compromise  between  truth  and 
fancy,  between  seriousness  and  trifling. 
It  cannot  do  without  something  of  pop 
ularity,  and  yet  the  writer  who  thinks 
much  of  popularity  is  unfaithful  to  his 
mission;  on  the  other  hand,  he  who 
leans  too  heavily  upon  literature  breaks 
through  it  into  science  or  into  practical 
business  "  ?  He  is  speaking  of  Goethe, 
who  sometimes  leans  so  heavily  on  his  art 
96 


Lightness  of  Touch 

that  he  breaks  through  into  philosophy, 
and  whose  verse,  in  didactic  moods, 
comes  perilously  near  prose;  but  is  his 
general  statement  of  the  matter  adequate 
or  accurate  ?  There  is,  it  is  true,  liter 
ature  so  light  in  treatment  and  so  unsub 
stantial  in  thought  that  it  is  distinctly 
trifling.  "  The  Rape  of  the  Lock,"  for 
instance,  is  in  one  sense  a  trifle,  but  as 
a  trifle  it  is  so  perfect  that  it  betrays  a 
strong  and  steady  hand  behind  it.  Pro 
fessor  Seeley  does  not,  however,  limit 
the  application  of  his  statement ;  he  evi 
dently  means  to  suggest  that  there  is  an 
element  of  trifling  in  literature  as  an  art, 
for  he  puts  it  in  antithesis  with  serious 
ness.  Is  there  not  an  imperfect  idea  of 
art  involved  in  this  statement,  and  does 
not  Professor  Seeley  confuse  the  ease 
and  grace  of  literature  with  trifling? 

There  is,  especially  among  English- 
speaking  peoples,  a  lack  of  the  artistic 
instinct,  nowhere  more  discernible  than 
in  the  inability  to  take  art  itself  seri 
ously,  and  in  the  tendency  to  impute 
7  97 


My  Study  Fire 

to  it  a  lack  which  inheres  not  in  art 
itself,  but  in  the  perception  of  the  critic. 
Moral  seriousness  is  a  very  noble  quality, 
but  it  is  by  no  means  the  only  form  of 
seriousness.  It  may  even  be  suspected 
that  there  is  something  beyond  it,  —  a 
seriousness  less  strenuous,  and  therefore 
less  obvious,  but  a  seriousness  more  fun 
damental  because  more  reposeful,  and 
sustained  by  a  wider  range  of  relation 
ships.  Strain  and  stress  have  a  dramatic 
as  well  as  a  moral  interest,  and  often 
quite  obscure  those  silent  and  unobtru 
sive  victories  which  are  won,  not  without 
sore  struggle,  but  without  dust  and 
tumult.  There  are  few  things  so  decep 
tive  as  the  lightness  of  touch  which  evi 
dences  the  presence  of  the  highest  art ; 
it  means  that  the  man  is  doing  creatively 
what  he  once  did  mechanically.  It  is 
the  very  highest  form  of  seriousness, 
because  it  has  forgotten  that  it  is  serious ; 
it  has  passed  through  self-consciousness 
into  that  unconscious  mood  in  which  a 
man  does  the  noblest  and  most  beauti- 
98 


Lightness  of  Touch 

ful  things  of  which  he  is  capable,  with 
out  taking  thought  that  they  are  noble 
or  beautiful.  In  the  unfolding  of  char 
acter,  where  moral  aims  are  most  distinct 
and  moral  processes  most  constant,  there 
must  come  a  time  when  a  man  is  genuine 
and  sound,  as  nature  is  fruitful,  by  the 
law  of  his  own  being.  He  passes  beyond 
the  stage  when  he  needs  to  say  to  him 
self  every  hour  and  with  intensest  self- 
consciousness,  "  I  must  do  right ; "  it 
becomes  his  habit  to  do  right. 

Lightness  of  touch  is  not  based  on 
lack  of  seriousness ;  it  is,  rather,  the 
product  of  a  seriousness  which  no  longer 
obtrudes  itself,  because  it  has  served  its 
purpose.  Shakespeare  was  not  less  seri 
ous  when  he  wrote  the  exquisite  calendar 
of  flowers  in  "  The  Winter's  Tale  "  than 
when  he  drew  the  portrait  of  Hector, 
but  he  was  a  greater  artist ;  he  had  mas 
tered  his  material  more  completely  ;  he 
had  touched  the  ultimate  goal  of  his  art. 
His  touch  is  infinitely  lighter  in  "  The 
Tempest,"  where  his  imagination  plays 
99 


My  Study  Fire 

with  the  freedom  and  ease  of  a  natural 
force,  than  in  "  Troilus  and  Cressida," 
where  he  more  than  once  leans  too  heav 
ily  on  poetry  and  breaks  through  into 
philosophy.  The  philosophy  is  ex 
tremely  interesting,  but  it  is  not  poetry  ; 
it  rather  illustrates  the  difference  between 
the  strenuous  and  the  artistic  mood,  and 
throws  a  clear  light  on  the  process  of 
evolution  by  which  the  heavy  touch  is 
transformed  into  that  light,  sure,  self- 
effacing  touch  which  gives  us  the  thing 
to  be  expressed  without  any  conscious 
ness  of  the  manner  of  the  expression. 

Milton's  voice  has  great  compass  and 
his  manner  great  nobleness  in  "  Paradise 
Lost,"  but  the  purest  and  therefore  the 
best  poetry  that  came  from  his  hand  is 
to  be  found  in  "  L' Allegro,"  "  II  Pen- 
seroso,"  "  Lycidas,"  the  masque  of 
"Comus,"  and  the  fragments  of  the 
"  Arcades."  These  tender  and  beautiful 
lyrics,  in  which  nobility  of  idea  and  ease 
of  manner  are  so  perfectly  blended,  were 
the  products  of  the  poet's  most  harmo- 

100 


Lightness  of  Touch 

nious  hours,  when  he  was  not  less  a 
Puritan  because  he  wsjs:  ,sq  much  ;frjore 
the  poet ;  when  his,  mood '  was  not  less 
serious,  but  his  relation  to  tors  ',  tirii.ej  'had 
less  of  self-consciousness  in  it ;  when  he 
touched  the  deepest  themes  with  con 
summate  grace  and  lightness. 

Goethe  is  at  his  best  when  his  touch 
is  lightest,  and  at  his  worst  when  it  is 
heaviest.  His  lyrics  are  unsurpassed  in 
that  magical  ease  whose  secret  is  known 
only  to  the  masters  of  verse ;  he  is  as 
spontaneous,  unforced,  and  fresh  as  a 
mountain  rivulet.  In  his  letters  to 
Schiller  he  emphasises  the  dependence 
of  the  poet  on  the  unconscious,  creative 
mood.  When  this  mood  possesses  him, 
the  didactic  tendency  disappears,  and  the 
glowing  spirit  of  poetry  shines  in  song, 
ballad,  and  lyrical  romance ;  he  is  all 
fire,  grace,  and  lightness.  But  when  the 
spontaneous  mood  forsakes  him,  and  he 
writes  by  force  of  his  training  and  skill, 
how  slow  and  heavy  is  his  flight,  how 
cold  and  obvious  his  touch !  He  is  no- 

101 


My  Study  Fire 

where  more  in  earnest  than  in  these  inimi 
table  songs,  and  has' nowhere  else  a  touch 
so  Devoid  of  manner,  so  instinct  with 
grace  arid  iteediam. 

The  lightness  of  touch  which  charms 
us  in  literature  is  not  trifling ;  it  is  mas 
tery.  Whoever  possesses  it  has  gotten 
the  better  of  his  materials  and  of  himself, 
and  has  brought  both  into  subjection  to 
that  creative  mood  which  pours  itself  out 
in  finalities  and  perfections  of  speech 
and  form  as  naturally  as  the  vitality  of  a 
plant  bursts  into  a  flower  which  is  both 
obviously  and  inexplicably  beautiful. 
Whenever  we  come  upon  lightness  of 
touch,  we  are  in  contact  with  a  work  of 
art ;  whenever  we  miss  it,  the  work  that 
lacks  it  may  be  noble,  worthy,  full  of 
evidences  of  genius,  but  it  is  not  a  work 
of  supreme  artistic  excellence. 


102 


Chapter  XIII 

The  Poets'  Corner 

ON  dark  days,  when  the  fire  sings  its 
merry  song  in  the  teeth  of  sullen 
winds,  the  poets'  corner  is  a  place  of 
refuge.  There  the  great  singers  stand, 
row  upon  row,  a  silent  but  immortal 
choir;  and  the  serene  face  of  Emerson 
hangs  on  the  little  space  of  wall  beside 
them.  In  the  glorious  company  are 
those  who  sang  the  first  notes  in  the 
earliest  dawn  of  history,  and  those  whose 
voices  are  just  rising  above  the  turmoil 
of  to-day.  What  a  vast  movement  of 
life  have  they  set  to  music,  and  how 
many  generations  have  they  stirred  to 
heroism  or  charmed  into  forgetfulness ! 
There  have  been  great  teachers,  but  none 
so  persuasive  as  these ;  there  have  been 
great  leaders,  but  none  so  inspiring  as 
these.  I  have  often  envied  the  Athenian 
103 


My  Study  Fire 

boy  sans  grammar,  sans  arithmetic,  sans 
reading-books,  sans  science  primer ;  with 
no  text-book  but  his  Homer,  but  with 
Homer  stored  in  his  memory  and  locked 
in  his  heart.  To  be  educated  on  the 
myths  —  those  rich,  deep  interpretations 
of  life  —  and  upon  the  heroic  history  of 
one's  race ;  to  have  constantly  before  the 
imagination,  not  isolated  incidents  and 
unrelated  facts,  but  noble  figures  and 
splendid  achievements ;  to  breathe  the 
atmosphere  of  a  religion  interwoven  with 
the  story  of  one's  race,  and  to  approach 
all  this  at  the  feet  of  a  great  poet  —  were 
ever  children  more  fortunate  ?  And 
when  it  comes  to  results,  was  ever  edu 
cational  system  so  fruitful  as  that  which 
in  the  little  city  of  Athens,  in  the  brief 
period  of  a  century  and  a  half,  produced 
a  group  of  men  whose  superiority  as  sol 
diers,  statesmen,  poets,  orators,  architects, 
sculptors,  and  philosophers  seems  some 
how  to  have  been  secured  without  effort, 
so  perfectly  is  the  spirit  of  their  achieve 
ments  expressed  in  the  forms  which  they 
104 


The  Poets'  Corner 

took  on  ?  The  superiority  of  that  train 
ing  lay  in  its  recognition  of  the  imagina 
tion,  and  in  its  appeal,  not  to  the  intellect 
alone,  but  to  the  whole  nature.  We 
have  great  need  of  science,  and  science 
has  been  a  grave  and  wise  teacher,  but 
the  heart  of  life  and  the  meaning  of  it 
belong  to  poetry ;  for  poetry,  as  Words 
worth  says,  is  "  the  impassioned  expres 
sion  which  is  in  the  face  of  all  science." 
Science  gives  us  the  face,  but  poetry 
gives  us  the  countenance  —  which  is  the 
soul  irradiating  its  mask  and  revealing 
itself. 

Upon  all  those  who  "  cannot  heare  the 
Plannet-like  Musick  of  Poetrie,"  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  a  poet  in  deed  as  in  word, 
called  down  the  direful  curse,  "in  the 
behalfe  of  all  Poets,"  "  that  while  you 
live,  you  live  in  love,  and  never  get 
favour  for  lacking  skill  of  a  Sonnet ;  and 
when  you  die,  your  memory  die  from 
the  earth  for  want  of  an  Epitaph."  The 
range  of  that  curse  is  more  limited  than 
appears  at  first  sight,  for  while  it  is  true 
105 


My  Study  Fire 

that  many  of  us  have  never  listened  to 
the  children  of  the  Muses,  those  of  us 
are  few  who  are  not  in  some  way  poets. 
We  call  ourselves  practical,  and  imagine, 
in  our  ignorance,  that  there  is  a  certain 
superiority  in  thus  separating  ourselves 
from    the    idealists,    the    dreamers,    the 
singers.     But  Nature  is  wiser  than  we, 
and  suffers   us  to  apply  these  belittling 
epithets  to  ourselves,  but   all    the    time 
keeps    us    in    contact    with     the     living 
streams     of    poetry.     The    instant    our 
nobler    instincts    are    appealed    to,    and 
we   cease   to   be   traffickers   and   become 
fathers,    mothers,    children,    lovers,    pa 
triots,  we  become  poets.     To  get  away 
from  poetry  one  must  begin  by  empty 
ing  the  universe  of  God ;  to  rid  life  of 
poetry  one  must  end   by   following  the 
hint  of  the  great  pessimist  and  persuad 
ing   men    to    commit    universal   suicide. 
While  the  days  come  to  us  with  such 
radiancy  of  dawn,  and  depart  from    us 
with  such  splendour  of  eve ;  while  flow 
ers   bloom,    and    birds    sing,  and  winds 
106 


The  Poets'  Corner 

sport  with  clouds  ;  while  mountains  hold 
their  sublime  silence  against  the  horizon, 
and  the  sea  sings  its  endless  monotone ; 
while  hope,  faith,  and  love  teach  their 
great  lessons,  and  win  us  to  work,  sacri 
fice,  purity,  and  devotion,  —  we  shall  be 
poets  in  spite  of  ourselves  and  whether 
we  know  it  or  not.  There  is  no  choice 
about  the  matter ;  there  is  a  divine  com 
pulsion  in  it ;  we  must  be  poets  because 
we  are  immortal. 

But  there  is  a  great  difference  between 
being  or  doing  something  by  compulsion, 
and  being  or  doing  something  by  choice. 
They  only  get  the  joy  of  poetry  who  love 
it  and  make  fellowship  with  it.  The 
richest  poetry  must  always  be  that  which 
lies  in  one's  soul,  in  its  deep  and  silent 
communion  with  nature  and  with  life  ; 
but  this  unuttered  and,  in  a  true  sense, 
unutterable  poetry,  becomes  more  defi 
nite  and  available  as  a  resource  if  we 
make  intimate  friends  with  the  masters 
of  poetical  expression.  Shakespeare  saw 
more  of  life  than  falls  to  the  lot  of  all 
107 


My  Study  Fire 

save    his  greatest   readers;    perhaps    no 
one   has  yet  brought    to   his  pages  the 
same  degree  of  force  and  veracity  of  in 
sight  which  are  to  be   found    in  them. 
To  read   Shakespeare,  therefore,  is,  for 
the  greatest  no  less  than  for  the  least,  a 
resource  of  the  noblest  kind ;  it  is  an  in 
terpretation  of  life  through  the  imagina 
tion  ;    a  disclosure    of  what   lies    in    its 
depths,  to  be  revealed  only  when  those 
depths  are    stirred   by  the   tempests  of 
passion,   or    by  some    searching  experi 
ence.     A  recent  writer  says  that  Shake 
speare  is  to  mankind  at  large  what  a  man 
of  perfect  vision  would  be  in   a  world 
of  half-blind  persons,  —  people  who  saw 
nothing  clearly  or  accurately.        Shake 
speare   does   not  describe   an    imaginary 
race    and    a   visionary    world;     he    de 
scribes  men  as  they  are,  and  the  world 
as  it   is ;  the  sense   of  unreality    in  his 
work,  if  one  has  it,   comes   from   one's 
own     limitations    of    sight.       In    other 
words,  it  is    not  the  so-called  practical 
mind  which  sees  things  as  they  are,  but 
1 08 


The  Poets'  Corner 

the  mind  of  imaginative  force  and  poetic 
insight.  We  move  about  in  a  world 
half-realised,  full  of  dim  figures,  vague 
outlines,  hazy  vistas ;  Shakespeare  lived 
in  a  world  which  lay  in  clear  light,  and 
which  he  searched  through  and  through 
with  those  marvellous  glances  of  his. 
Who  has  read  English  history  with 
such  an  eye  as  the  greatest  of  English 
poets  ?  Hume  recites  the  facts  about 
Henry  V.  in  an  orderly  and  careful 
manner,  but  Shakespeare  looks  into  the 
soul  of  the  robust  and  virile  king,  and 
makes  us  see,  not  the  trappings  and  in 
signia  of  power,  but  the  interior  source 
of  that  authority  which  flung  the  English 
yeomen  like  a  foaming  wave  over  the 
walls  of  Harfleur.  The  diamond  is 
none  the  less  in  the  quartz  because  we 
fail  to  see  it,  and  the  heroic  and  tragic 
possibilities  are  not  lacking  in  hosts  of 
human  lives  which  seem  entirely  com 
monplace  to  most  of  us.  That  which 
makes  some  ages  so  much  more  in 
spiring  and  productive  than  others  is 
109 


My  Study  Fire 

not  so  much  a  difference  in  the  material 
at  hand  as  in  the  skill  and  power  with 
which  the  possibilities  of  that  material 
are  discerned  and  turned  to  account; 
men  do  not  differ  so  much  in  the  pos 
session  of  opportunities  as  in  the  clear 
ness  of  sight  to  discern  them  and  the 
force  to  make  the  most  of  them.  This 
world  can  never  be  commonplace  save 
to  the  dull  and  unseeing;  and  life  can 
never  be  devoid  of  tragic  interest  save  to 
those  who  fail  to  recognise  the  elements 
at  work  in  every  community  and  in  every 
individual  soul. 

The  men  of  poetic  mind  have  many 
gifts,  but  none  so  rare  and  of  such  mo 
ment  to  their  fellows  as  this  clearness  of 
vision.  To  really  see  clearly  into  the 
soul  of  things  is  one  of  the  rarest  of 
gifts,  and  it  is  the  characteristic  gift  of 
the  poetic  imagination.  That  second 
harvest  of  which  Emerson  speaks  is 
reaped  only  by  the  sickle  of  the  im 
agination  ;  to  the  common  vision  it 
does  not  even  exist.  This  round 
no 


The  Poets*  Corner 

world  is  distinctly  visible  to  the  dull 
est  mind ;  but  to  such  a  mind  the 
beauty,  wonder,  and  mystery  in  which 
its  secret  lies  hidden,  are  as  if  they  were 
not.  Men  walk  through  life  almost 
without  consciousness  of  the  daily  mir 
acle  performed  under  their  eyes  ;  they 
become  so  familiar  with  their  surround 
ings  that  they  lose  the  sense  of  awe  and 
wonder  which  flows  from  the  clear  per 
ception  of  the  fathomless  sea  of  force  in 
which  all  things  are  borne  onward.  One 
may  drop  his  plummet  in  the  nearest 
pool,  and,  behold,  it  also  is  fathomless. 
Every  path  leads  into  the  presence  of 
that  infinite  power  to  which  we  give 
different  names,  but  which  is  the  one 
great  and  eternal  reality  behind  these 
apparitions  of  to-day.  Now,  of  this 
unseen  but  sublime  presence  the  im 
agination  keeps  us  continually  con 
scious  ;  and  the  great  poetic  minds, 
in  prose  and  verse,  —  in  Plato's  "  Dia 
logues  "  and  in  Dante's  "  Divine  Com 
edy/' —  fulfil  their  highest  office  in 
in 


My  Study  Fire 

seeing  and  compelling  us  to  see  the 
spirit  behind  the  form,  the  soul  within 
the  body.  In  the  records  which  the  im 
agination  has  kept  in  the  art  of  the 
world  are  written  the  true  story  of  the 
soul  of  man,  the  authentic  history  of  his 
life  on  earth.  And  the  charm  of  this 
revelation  lies  in  its  freshness,  its  variety, 
and  its  beauty.  It  does  not  preserve  the 
past  after  the  manner  of  the  historians 
by  pressing  it  like  dried  and  faded  flow 
ers  between  the  leaves  of  massive  quar 
tos  ;  it  preserves  the  very  vitality  which 
flowered  centuries  ago.  The  one  su 
preme  quality  by  which  it  lives  is  its 
marvellous  life,  —  that  life  which  keeps 
Ulysses  still  sailing  the  ancient  seas,  and 
Romeo  still  young  and  beautiful  with  the 
passion  which,  in  spite  of  its  own  short 
life,  is  the  evidence  of  immortality. 


112 


Chapter  XIV 

The  Joy  of  the  Moment 

THE  first  warm  spring  days  stir 
something  like  resentment  against 
those  ascetic  and  monastic  ideas  which 
for  so  many  centuries  set  men  at  odds 
with  nature,  and  almost  broke  the  bonds 
between  them.  There  is  a  delight  in  life 
which  is  often  called  pagan,  so  grossly 
has  Christianity  been  misread.  This  de 
light,  born  of  the  pure  joy  of  the  mind 
in  recognising  the  beauty  of  the  world 
and  its  own  inalienable  share  in  it,  is 
quite  as  much  a  duty  as  the  most  definite 
moral  obligation ;  but  a  long  education 
will  be  needed  before  the  real  meaning  of 
beauty  is  discerned,  and  the  harmony  be 
tween  man  and  nature,  shattered  by  Latin 
mediaevalism,  is  restored.  Meantime, 
fortunate  are  they  to  whom  the  bloom 

8  113 


My  Study  Fire 

of  the  world  is  a  never-ending  joy,  and 
who  are  able  to  snatch  this  unforced  de 
light  in  an  age  when  so  few  things  are 
sought  spontaneously,  and  so  many  are 
striven  for  with  a  strenuousness  which 
defeats  itself. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  Christianity 
in  Paganism,  if  one  goes  to  the  New 
Testament  for  his  ideals ;  and  there  is, 
accordingly,  a  great  deal  of  Paganism 
coming  out  in  Christianity.  The  world 
is  as  beautiful  as  it  was  before  the  shadow 
of  a  divisive  thought  of  himself  made 
man  a  stranger  in  the  house  built  for  him 
with  a  splendour  fit  for  immortal  spirits ; 
and  the  alien  begins  once  more  to  find 
himself  at  home  under  the  kindly  stars 
and  amid  the  ministrations  of  the  seasons. 
There  are  few  things  which  the  modern 
world  needs  more  than  the  power  to  take 
the  joy  of  the  moment,  without  that 
blighting  afterthought  which  scatters 
every  rose  in  barren  analysis,  and  flings 
every  fragment  of  gold  into  the  crucible. 
The  first  use  of  the  world  is  to  see  it, 
114 


The  Joy  of  the  Moment 

and  get  the  delight  which  comes    from 
the  vision  ;  but  there  are  hosts  of  men  so 
bent  upon  understanding  how  things  are 
made  that  they  pull  them  to  pieces  be 
fore   they   have  really  looked   at  them. 
One  longs  at  times  for  the  mood  of  the 
myth-makers,    who    often    misread   the 
facts,  but  who  had  a  rare  faculty  of  get 
ting  at  the  truth,  and  who  had  the  joy  of 
seeing  the  world  as  a  great  living  ^  whole, 
overflowing    with    beauty    and    divinity. 
There   were    greater   things  to  learn    in 
nature    than    some    of  the  Greek  poets 
saw  ;  but  they  had  a  true  instinct  for  get 
ting  into  intimate  relations  with  nature, 
and  they  knew  how  to  enrich  themselves 
with  the  loveliness  which  encircled  them 
in  sky  and  sea  and  woodland.     There  is 
a  charm  in  Theocritus,  for  instance,  with 
which   the    dawning    summer    puts    one 
in  renewed    fellowship;    a  charm  which 
seems  to  disclose  a  new  reality  when  the 
advancing  season  becomes  its  comment 
and  illustration.     That  charm  resides  in 
an  immense  capacity  for  enjoyment;  in 


My  Study  Fire 

the  power  of  surrendering  one's  self  to  the 
moment  so  completely  that  one  slips  the 
bonds  of  consciousness  and  loses  himself 
in  the  flowing  life  of  the  world.  When 
one  has,  so  to  speak,  shed  himself,  he  is 
in  the  way  of  some  of  the  rarest  joys 
which  mortal  lips  ever  taste  —  joys  as 
pure  and  sweet  as  any  that  are  yielded 
to  the  highest  moods.  "The  uncon 
sciousness  of  the  child,"  says  Froebel, 
"is  rest  in  God,"  —  a  very  deep  and 
beautiful  saying,  which  we  shall  do  well 
to  lay  to  heart.  Too  many  of  us  are 
under  the  delusion  that  nothing  counts 
save  activity,  and  that  to  rest  in  nature 
at  times  is  to  commit  the  sin  of  sloth- 
fulness. 

The  herdsmen  whom  Theocritus  has 
immortalised  were  not  always  models  of 
conscious  rectitude,  but  they  are  often 
models  of  unconscious  enjoyment.  They 
note  the  seasons  by  a  thousand  delicate 
signs,  and  they  mark  the  hours  by  a 
registry  of  time  more  sensitive  than  that 
on  any  dial.  The  sky,  the  clouds,  the 
116 


The  Joy  of  the  Moment 

sea,  have  perpetual  interest  for  them ; 
and  birds,  leaves,  winds,  and  flowers  so 
mingle  with  their  thoughts  and  occupa 
tions  that  the  inward  and  the  outward 
happenings  seem  all  of  a  piece.  Nature 
has  share  in  every  moment,  and  divides 
her  fruits  and  charms  as  if  there  were  a 
secret  contract  between  the  fruit-bearer 
and  the  fruit-taker;  between  the  brook 
and  the  figure  that  bends  over  it ;  between 
the  sloping  hillside  and  the  herdsman 
who  feeds  his  flock  on  the  grass  creeping 
close  to  the  olive-trees. 

Thyrsis,  let  honey  and  the  honeycomb 

Fill  thy  sweet  mouth,  and  figs  of  ^Egilus  : 

For  ne'er  cicala  trilled  so  sweet  a  song. 

Here  is  the  cup ;    mark,   friend,    how    sweet    it 

smells  : 
The  Hours,  thou  'It  say,  have  washed  it  in  their 

well. 

We  have  gone  a  long  way  in  our  real 

education  when  we  have  learned  how  to 

yield  ourselves  completely  to   the   hour 

and  the  scene,  for  in  this  mood  we  learn 

117 


My  Study  Fire 

secrets  which  defy  our  keenest  scrutiny. 
Nature  often  has  things  to  say  to  our 
silence  which  remain  unspoken  while  we 
insist  upon  having  speech  with  her.  To 
sit  at  her  feet  is  often  more  fruitful  than 
to  persist  in  putting  our  thought  into 
her  mind.  Above  all,  to  surrender  our 
selves  to  her  mood  is  to  feel  her  beauty 
with  a  keenness  of  delight  which  is  like 
the  adding  of  a  new  joy  to  life.  To 
those  who  are  preoccupied  with  their 
own  thoughts  a  whole  realm  of  happiness 
is  as  effectively  closed  as  if  it  were  walled 
and  barred.  To  leave  ourselves  at  home 
and  go  into  the  woods  to  find  what  is 
there,  and  not  what  we  have  brought 
there,  is  to  come  into  a  kingdom  of  God 
which,  being  without  us,  illuminates  with 
a  new  and  kindling  light  the  kingdom 
within  us.  There  are  a  delicacy  of  colour, 
a  charm  of  changeful  ness,  a  swiftly  shift 
ing  loveliness,  which  elude  our  hours  of 
self-consciousness  and  reserve  their  en 
chantment  for  our  moments  of  self-for- 
getfulness.  As  we  open  ourselves  to 
118 


The  Joy  of  the  Moment 

these  elusive  influences,  they  not  only 
silently  steal  into  our  souls,  but  they 
become  more  real  and  more  constant. 
A  new  sense,  or  rather  a  new  delicacy 
of  sense,  is  born  within  us ;  we  hear 
sounds  which  were  inaudible  before,  and 
we  see  things  that  were  invisible  to  our 
preoccupation. 

And  from  this  freshening  of  perception 
there  comes  not  only  a  new  joy  in  nature, 
but  a  new  insight  into  poetry.  For  the 
poets  find  their  sphere  in  the  observation 
and  record  of  this  more  delicate  and  un 
obtrusive  loveliness,  and  their  power  of 
beguiling  us  out  of  ourselves  lies  in  their 
faculty  of  finer  vision.  No  truer  dis 
closure  of  this  sensitiveness  of  spirit  to 
the  beauty  of  the  world  has  recently  been 
made  than  that  which  finds  its  record  in 
William  Watson's  invocation  to  cc  The 
First  Skylark  of  Spring "  : 

The  springtime  bubbled  in  his  throat, 
The  sweet  sky  seemed  not  far  above, 

And  young  and  lovesome  came  the  note  ; 
Ah,  thine  is  Youth  and  Love. 
119 


My  Study  Fire 

Thou  sing'st  of  what  he  knew  of  old, 
And  dreamlike  from  afar  recalls  ; 

In  flashes  of  forgotten  gold 
An  Orient  glory  falls. 

And  as  he  listens,  one  by  one 

Life's  utmost  splendours  blaze  more  nigh 
Less  inaccessible  the  sun, 

Less  alien  grows  the  sky. 

For  thou  art  native  to  the  spheres, 
And  of  the  courts  of  heaven  art  free, 

And  earnest  to  his  temporal  ears 
News  from  eternity. 

And  lead'st  him  to  the  dizzy  verge, 
And  lur'st  him  o'er  the  dazzling  line, 

Where  mortal  and  immortal  merge, 
And  human  dies  divine. 


120 


Chapter  XV 

The   Lowell   Letters 

IT  has  long  been  the  habit  of  many 
people  to  speak  of  letter-writing  as 
a  lost  art,  and  to  intimate  that  its  disap 
pearance  is  a  phase  of  that  deterioration 
of  mind  and  manners  which  is  constantly 
charged  upon  the  spread  of  the  demo 
cratic  idea.  Suits  of  armour  having  been 
relegated  to  the  Tower,  and  the  splendid 
dress  of  the  Renaissance  period  no  longer 
charming  the  eye  save  on  festive  occa 
sions,  the  habit  of  exchanging  confidences 
and  opinions  at  length  between  friends 
has  gone  the  way  of  all  the  earth  !  That 
there  has  been  a  change  in  the  manner 
of  letter-writing  is  beyond  question,  but 
that  the  change  has  been  a  deterioration 
is  more  than  doubtful.  When  Mile,  de 
Scudery  wrote  "The  Grand  Cyrus," 
nothing  short  of  the  most  stately  figures, 


121 


My  Study  Fire 

the  most  elaborate  style,  and  a  long  row 
of  volumes  would  suffice  for  a  dignified 
romance ;  to-day  we  have  some  very 
humble  people,  some  very  simple  speech, 
and  a  single  volume  of  moderate  size  for 
the  story  of  "  Adam  Bede."  Will  any 
one  say,  therefore,  that  the  novel  has 
lost  dignity,  power,  or  reality?  In  these 
days  friends  no  longer  constitute  them 
selves  reporters  and  news-gatherers,  as 
in  the  time  when  the  news-letter,  written 
over  a  cup  of  chocolate  in  some  London 
coffee-house,  was  the  principal  means  of 
communication  between  the  metropolis 
and  the  provinces.  Changed  conditions 
involve  changed  methods  and  manners, 
but  not  necessarily  worse  ones.  French 
women  have  a  genius  and  a  training  for 
social  life,  for  living  together  in  a  real 
and  true  way,  from  which  women  of  the 
English-speaking  race  are,  as  a  rule, 
debarred.  Our  strong  and  persistent 
sense  of  personality  has  certain  fine 
rewards,  but  it  costs  a  good  deal  on  the 
side  of  free  and  intimate  relationship  with 

122 


The  Lowell  Letters 

others.  There  are  half  a  dozen  groups 
of  letters  written  by  French  women  which 
may  be  said  to  fix  the  standard  of  this 
kind  of  writing ;  but  those  who  know 
the  France  of  to-day  intimately  declare 
that  this  art  was  never  practised  with 
more  skill  and  charm  than  at  this 
moment. 

However  the  case  may  be  in  France, 
it  is  certain  that  this  century  has  been 
peculiarly  rich  in  this  kind  of  literature 
among  English-speaking  people,  and  some 
of  the  very  best  modern  writing  in  our 
language  has  taken  this  form.  When 
it  comes  to  the  question  of  literary  qual 
ity,  there  is  nothing  in  letter-writing, 
from  the  time  of  Howell  down,  more 
admirable  than  that  which  makes  every 
bit  and  fragment  from  Thackeray's  pen 
literature.  In  those  estrays,  to  which  he 
probably  attached  no  value,  and  to  which 
in  many  cases  he  certainly  gave  little 
time  or  thought,  the  touch  of  the  master 
is  in  every  line,  —  that  indefinable  qual 
ity  which  forever  differentiates  writing 
123 


My  Study  Fire 

from  literature.  This  quality,  which  is 
personality  plus  the  artistic  power,  is 
quite  as  likely  to  discover  itself  in  the 
briefest  note  as  in  the  most  elaborate 
work;  indeed,  the  careless  ease  with 
which  a  man  often  writes  to  his  friend  is 
more  favourable  to  free  and  unconscious 
expression  of  himself  than  the  essay  or 
the  novel  over  which  he  broods  and 
upon  which  he  works  month  after  month, 
perhaps  year  after  year.  The  suspicion 
of  toil  is  fatal  to  a  work  of  art,  for  the 
essence  of  art  is  ease ;  and  for  this  reason 
the  letters  of  some  writers  are  distinctly 
the  best  things  they  have  given  us. 
Unfortunately,  even  letter-writers  do  not 
always  escape  the  temptation  to  write 
with  an  eye  to  the  future,  and  to  put 
one's  best  foot  forward,  instead  of  open 
ing  one's  mind  and  heart  without  care 
or  consciousness. 

Mr.  Lowell's  letters  are  not  free  from 

faults,  but   their  faults  spring  from  his 

conditions    and    temperament,    and    not 

from  proximity  to  a  large  and  admiring 

124 


The  Lowell  Letters 

andience.  The  letters  are  simple,  frank, 
and  often  charmingly  affectionate;  they 
reveal  the  heart  of  the  man,  and  perhaps 
their  best  service  to  us  is  the  impression 
they  convey  that  the  man  and  his  work 
were  of  a  piece,  and  that  the  fine  ideal 
ism  of  the  poet  was  but  the  expression 
of  what  was  most  real  and  significant  to 
the  man.  The  self-consciousness  of  the 
young  Lowell  comes  out  very  strongly 
if  one  reads  his  letters  in  connection 
with  those  of  the  young  Walter  Scott ; 
but  it  was  a  self-consciousness  inherited 
with  the  Puritan  temperament  rather 
than  developed  in  the  individual  nature. 
The  strong,  quiet,  easy  relations  of  Scott 
to  his  time  and  world  are  very  sug 
gestive  of  a  power  which  has  so  far 
eluded  our  grasp, --a  power  which, 
could  we  grasp  it,  would  make  the  pro 
duction  of  great  literature  possible  to  us. 
Lowell  had  so  many  elements  of  great 
ness  that  one  is  often  perplexed  by  the 
fact  that,  as  a  writer,  with  all  his  gifts, 
he  somehow  falls  short  of  greatness. 
125 


My  Study  Fire 

May  it  not  be  that  all  that  stood  be 
tween  Lowell  and  those  final  stretches 
of  achievement  where  the  great  immortal 
things  are  done  was  his  self-conscious 
ness  ?  He  was  never  quite  free ;  he 
could  never  quite  let  himself  go,  so  to 
speak,  and  let  the  elemental  force  sweep 
him  wholly  out  of  himself.  But  it  is 
not  probable  that  any  one  could  have 
grown  up  in  the  New  England  of  his 
boyhood  and  possessed  this  last  gift  of 
greatness.  "  I  shall  never  be  a  poe,t," 
he  wrote  in  18655  "  ^  I  get  out  °f  tne 
pulpit ;  and  New  England  was  all  meet 
ing-house  when  I  was  growing  up."  A 
generation  later  this  unconsciousness  had 
become  possible,  for  Phillips  Brooks 
possessed  it  in  rare  degree  ;  it  was  the 
secret  of  that  contagious  quality  which 
gave  him  such  compelling  power  when 
ever  he  rose  to  speak. 

Lowell's  letters  have  the  great  charm 
of  frankness,  —  a  charm  possessed  only 
by  natures  of  a  high  order.     One  is  con 
stantly  struck  with  his  simplicity,  —  that 
126 


The  Lowell  Letters 

simplicity  which  is  so  often  found  in 
a  nature  at  once  strong  and  rich.  Life 
consists,  after  all,  in  a  very  few  things, 
and  no  one  knows  this  so  well  as  the 
man  who  has  tried  many  things.  There 
was  in  the  heart  of  the  old  diplomatist 
the  same  hunger  and  thirst  that  were 
in  the  heart  of  the  young  poet.  Leslie 
Stephen  says  of  him  :  "  He  was  one  of 
those  men  of  whom  it  might  be  safely 
said,  not  that  they  were  unspoiled 
by  popularity  and  flattery,  but  that  it 
was  inconceivable  that  they  should  be 
spoiled.  He  offered  no  assailable  point 
to  temptation  of  that  kind.  For  it  is 
singularly  true  of  him,  as  I  take  it  to  be 
generally  true  of  men  of  the  really  poet 
ical  temperament,  that  the  child  in  him 
was  never  suppressed.  He  retained  the 
most  transparent  simplicity  to  the  end." 
And  this  comment  is  delightfully  con 
firmed  by  an  incident  reported  by  the 
"  Universal  Eavesdropper  "  :  "  Passing 
along  the  Edgware  Road  with  a  friend 
two  years  ago,  their  eyes  were  attracted 
127 


My  Study  Fire 

by  a  sign  with  this  inscription  :  c  Hos 
pital  for  Incurable  Children.'  Turning 
to  his  companion  with  that  genial  smile 
for  which  he  is  remarkable,  Lowell  said 
quietly,  'There  's  where  they'll  send  me 
one  of  these  days/  '  He  professed  not 
to  know  of  what  Fountain  of  Youth  he 
had  drank,  but  he  could  hardly  have 
been  ignorant  that  there  was  such  a 
fountain  in  his  own  nature.  The  "  ex- 
haustless  fund  of  inexperience "  which 
he  said  was  somewhere  about  him  was 
simply  the  richness  of  a  nature  which 
never  reached  its  limits  and  flowed  back 
upon  itself  with  that  silent  but  desolat 
ing  reaction  which  sometimes  gives  age 
a  touch  of  tragedy. 

The  simplicity  of  Lowell's  nature 
comes  out  also  in  his  dealing  with  ethi 
cal  questions.  He  never  sophisticates, 
or  perplexes  himself  or  his  readers  with 
the  effort  to  justify  the  right  and  just 
thing  by  a  train  of  reasoning ;  he  strikes 
straight  at  the  heart  of  the  matter. 
Nothing  seems  to  confuse  him  or  to  dis- 
128 


The  Lowell  Letters 

tort  his  vision  ;  he  sees  clearly,  and  what 
he  sees  he  accepts  with  childlike  simpli 
city  of  faith.     This  is  the  secret  of  his 
singular  effectiveness  when  he  speaks  on 
moral  questions.     There  is  an  elemental 
Tightness  in  his  view   and  an  elemental 
authority  in  his  voice.     Whether  he  is 
dealing    wit      the    burning    question    of 
slavery,  or  with  the  delusion  of  spiritual 
ism,  or  with  incorruptibility  in  public  life, 
or  with  honest  payment  of  public  obliga 
tions,  or  with  the  right  of  property   in 
books,  his  perception  flies  like  an  arrow 
to  its  mark  ;  tradition,  custom,  casuistry, 
not  only  do  not  confuse  him  —  they  do 
not  even   reach   him.      This   quality  ^of 
directness  is  one  of  the  most  convincing 
evidences  of  greatness.     In  a  man  of  Lin 
coln's  opportunities  and  experiences  its 
presence  is  not  surprising,  although  none 
the  less  admirable   and  rare  ;    but  in  a 
man  of  Lowell's  culture   and  wide   con 
tact  with    life   it    shines    with   a   beauty 
made  more  effective  by  the  richness  of 
the  medium  which  it  masters. 


9 


My  Study  Fire 

"  I  love  above  all  other  reading  the 
early  letters  of  men  of  genius.  In  that 
struggling,  hoping,  confident  time,  the 
world  has  not  slipped  in  with  its  odious 
consciousness,  its  vulgar  claim  of  con- 
fidantship  between  them  and  their  in 
spiration.  In  reading  these  letters  I  can 
recall  my  former  self,  full  of  an  aspira 
tion  which  had  not  learned  how  hard 
the  hills  of  life  are  to  climb,  but  thought 
rather  to  alight  upon  them  from  its 
winged  vantage-ground."  These  words, 
called  out  by  a  gift  of  "  Keats's  Life," 
are  expressive  of  the  feeling  with  which 
one  dips  into  these  letters  written  by  the 
same  hand,  —  letters  full  of  disclosures 
of  character  ;  of  side-lights  on  a  life  of 
sustained  dignity  and  fruitfulness ;  of 
wit,  humour,  wisdom,  and  art. 


130 


Chapter  XVI 

The  Tyranny  of  Books 

MR.  LOWELL  speaks  of  himself, 
in  one  of  his  most  characteristic 
letters,  as  one  of  the  last  of  the  great 
readers,  —  a  fortunate  few  who  have  had 
leisure  and  opportunity  to  stray  at  will 
through    the    whole    field    of  literature. 
The  true  book-lover  counts  his  easy  in 
timacy  with  his  library  as  a  privilege  be 
yond  the  purchasing  power  of  money  or 
fame,  and   would    sooner   part   with  all 
hope  of  share  in  either  than  with  a  re 
source  which    is    a   measureless  delight. 
For  the  love  of  books  becomes  a  passion 
in  the  end,  and  when  the  heart  once  falls 
a  prey  to  this  passion,  most  things  that 
other  men  care  for  become  dross.     Great 
fortunes  do  not  so  much  as   touch  the 
imagination  that  has  kept  company  with 
Una  and   Rosalind;    and  the   fret   and 


My  Study  Fire 

fever  of  the  rush  for  place  have  no  power 
to  mar  the  repose  of  the  library  in  which 
the  devout  reader  sits  as  in  a  shrine.  To 
those  who  have  become  past-masters  of 
the  art  of  reading,  the  spell  of  the  book 
is  not  to  be  resisted ;  but  no  description 
can  convey  an  idea  of  its  power  to  those 
who  have  not  fallen  under  it.  The  real 
reader  believes  in  his  heart  that  every 
hour  apart  from  his  books  is  an  hour 
lost ;  that  all  duties  and  necessities  which 
draw  him  away  are  not  only  interruptions, 
but  impertinences;  and  that  the  busy, 
restless,  distracted  world  has  no  more 
right  to  disturb  him  in  his  devotions 
than  had  the  marauding  bands  of  medi 
aeval  warfare  to  break  in  upon  the  fugi 
tives  who  had  taken  refuge  in  the 
sanctuaries.  This  is  what  the  past- 
master  of  the  art  of  reading  believes  in 
his  heart;  but  he  has  kept  good  com 
pany  too  long  to  exalt  his  privilege  at 
the  expense  of  his  fellows  by  making 
public  confession  of  his  faith. 

We  often  need,   however,  to  protect 
132 


The  Tyranny  of  Books 

ourselves  from  our  friends ;  for  we  can 
not  bring  the  best  gifts  to  the  service  of 
friendship  unless  we  guard  the  independ 
ence  of  our  own  thought  and  action 
against  even  the  solicitation  of  affection. 
Lovelace  struck  a  very  deep  note  when 
he  sang: 

I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much 
Loved  I  not  Honour  more. 

A  great  affection  is  often  a  great  peril, 
and  a  great  passion  brings  with  it  a 
commensurate  danger.  The  great  reader 
is  the  most  fortunate  of  men,  but  he  is 
also  one  of  the  most  sorely  tempted ;  and 
his  temptation  is  the  more  seductive  be 
cause  it  comes  in  the  guise  of  an  oppor 
tunity.  It  seems  a  great  waste  of  time, 
and  a  piece  of  very  bad  taste  as  well,  to 
spend  much  time  with  one's  own  thought 
when  the  best  thought  of  the  world  may 
be  had  for  the  opening  of  a  volume  close 
at  hand.  There  is  a  kind  of  brazen 
effrontery  in  trying  to  think  things  out 
for  ourselves  when  Plato's  Dialogues  let 


My  Study  Fire 

us  into  a  world  of  thought  not  only  very 
noble  in  its  structure,  but  enchanting  in 
its  atmosphere.  In  the  long  run,  how 
ever,  one  would  better  do  without  Plato 
than  lose  the  habit  of  thinking.  And 
how  shall  a  man  justify  serious  and  pro 
longed  observation  of  life  when  the  plays 
of  Shakespeare  lie  on  his  table,  to  be 
opened  in  any  hour,  and  never  to  be 
closed  without  a  fresh  sense  of  the  marvel 
lous  searching  of  the  heart  and  mind  of 
man  which  has  made  its  registry  on  every 
page?  No  reader  ever  gets  to  the 
bottom  of  Shakespeare's  thought,  and 
surely  it  is  folly  to  try  to  master  life  for 
ourselves  when  we  are  unable  to  fully 
possess  ourselves  of  this  interpretation 
of  it !  In  like  manner,  Theocritus  and 
Wordsworth  and  Burns  make  our  efforts 
to  establish  personal  relations  with  nature 
seem  at  once  intrusive  and  ridiculous. 
Whichever  way  we  turn  we  are  con 
fronted  by  our  betters,  and  the  sensitive 
spirit  feels  abashed  and  appalled  in  the 
presence  of  the  masters  who  have  pos- 


The  Tyranny  of  Books 

sessed  themselves  in  advance  of  every 
field  which  he  wishes  to  explore.  The 
great  reader,,  with  so  much  unappropri 
ated  material  at  hand,  is  tempted  to  be 
come  a  mere  receptacle  for  knowledge 
or  a  mere  taster  of  the  vintages  of  past 
years. 

A  good  deal  of  originative  force  is  ab 
sorbed  in  enjoyment  in  the  library,  and 
many  a  man  who  might  have  seen  and 
said  things  for  himself  sees  them  only 
through  the  eyes  of  others  and  says  them 
only  in  their  language.  Activity,  it  is 
true,  is  often  only  a  mischievous  form  of 
idleness,  and  it  would  be  better  if  some 
men  were  content  to  enjoy  instead  of 
striving  to  create ;  much  current  writing 
brings  this  truth  home  to  us.  Neverthe 
less,  a  man  would  better  be  himself  in  a 
poor  way  than  be  somebody  else  in  a 
very  rich  way.  The  modest  house  which 
a  man  builds  for  himself,  with  his  own 
brains  and  hands,  is  more  creditable  to 
him  than  the  great  house  which  he  occu 
pies  by  the  grace  or  good-will  of  another. 


My  Study  Fire 

A  man  owes  it  to  himself  to  stand  in  per 
sonal  relations  with  life,  and  not  to  touch 
it  at  second  hand;  and  one  would  better 
see  it  for  himself  than  get  report  of  it 
from  the  keenest  observer  that  ever 
studied  it ;  one  would  better  scrape  ac 
quaintance  with  Nature  on  any  terms  than 
get  his  knowledge  of  her  at  second  hand. 
The  chief  thing  for  every  man  is  to  come 
into  actual  contact  with  the  things  that 
make  for  his  life ;  and  for  that  contact 
no  price  is  too  great,  —  not  even  the 
price  of  turning  the  key  in  the  library 
door  and  suffering  the  cobwebs  to  cloud 
the  titles  of  the  books.  The  bookworm 
has  an  enjoyment  so  keen  that  we  must 
envy  even  while  we  condemn  it.  But 
the  pleasure  costs  too  much.  It  costs 
that  which  no  man  has  a  right  to  pay. 

It  involves,  among  other  losses,  a 
diminution  of  the  power  of  apprecia 
tion  and  appropriation ;  for  the  man 
who  is  always  and  only  a  reader  fails 
to  get  the  last  flavour  out  of  his  pur 
suit.  There  is  not  only  a  great  freshen- 
136  ' 


The  Tyranny  of  Books 

ing  of  the  receptive  sense  by  variation  of 
occupation  and  experience,  but  there  is 
also  notable  gain  in  insight  by  supple 
menting  the  observation  of  others  with 
studies  of  our  own.  No  man  can  fully 
enter  into  the  Shakespearean  comment 
upon  life  until  he  has  first  learned 
something  of  life  at  his  own  charges  ; 
and  no  man  can  feel  the  ultimate  charm 
of  Wordsworth  and  Burns  who  has  not 
first  plucked  the  daffodil  and  the  daisy 
with  his  own  hands.  The  men  of  many 
books  are  often  impoverished  so  far  as 
real  wealth  of  thought,  knowledge,  and 
feeling  is  concerned,  and  the  men  of  few 
books  are  often  incalculably  rich  in  these 
possessions.  Burton  loved  his  books 
well  and  not  unwisely,  but  we  read  his 
pages  of  compacted  quotation  only  at  in 
tervals  and  with  great  temperance  ;  while 
of  Shakespeare,  the  man  of  few  books, 
and  those  few  mainly  translations,  we 
can  never  get  enough.  It  is  true  that 
there  has  been  but  one  Shakespeare,  and 
in  any  age  the  men  are  few  who  have  any 
137 


My  Study  Fire 

original  comments  to  make.  If  life  were 
chiefly  a  matter  of  expression,  it  would 
be  better  every  way  that  a  few  should 
speak  and  that  the  rest  of  us  should 
keep  silence  in  the  presence  of  our 
betters ;  but  expression  is  the  gift  of 
the  few,  while  experience,  and  the 
growth  which  comes  through  it,  is  a 
birthright  which  no  man  can  sell  with 
out  selling  himself.  Whether  silent  or 
speaking,  a  man  must  be  himself,  see 
with  his  own  eyes,  and  work  with  his 
own  hands.  The  crowd  of  glorious 
witnesses  who  look  down  upon  his  toil 
from  the  shelves  of  his  library  will  not 
despise  it  because  it  is  humble,  nor  will 
they  scorn  his  achievement  because  it  is 
meagre  and  imperfect.  Their  noblest 
service  is  to  give  us  faith  in  ourselves 
and  joy  in  our  work. 


138 


Chapter  XVII 

The  Spell  of  Style 

THE    reality    of    art   is    constantly 
affirmed    by    the    sudden    flaming 
of  the    imagination    and    the    swift    re 
sponse    of   the    emotions    to    its    silent 
appeal.     Whenever    a    real    sentence    is 
spoken  on  the  stage,  what  a  silence  falls 
on  the  theatre!      Something   has   gone 
home   to   every   auditor,   and    the   hush 
of  recognition   or  expectancy  is  instan 
taneous.     There  is,  perhaps,  no  scene  in 
the  modern  lyrical  drama  which  is  more 
beautiful  in  its  suggestiveness  than  that 
in  which  Siegfried  strives  to  comprehend 
the  song  of  the  birds,  and  vainly  shapes 
his  stubborn  reed  to  give  them  note  for 
note.     The  light  sifts  down  through  the 
trees  ;  the  leaves  sway  gently  in  the  cur 
rents  of  air,  rising  and  falling  as  if  touched 
by  the  ebb  and  flow  of  invisible  tides ; 


My  Study  Fire 

the  sound  of  running  water,  cool,  pel 
lucid,  unstained  by  human  association, 
steals  in  among  the  murmurous  tones; 
and  in  the  midst  of  this  mysterious  stir 
of  life  sits  Siegfried,  pathetically  eager  to 
catch  the  keynote  of  a  harmony  whose 
existence  he  feels,  but  the  significance  of 
which  escapes  him.  The  baffling  sense 
of  a  music  just  beyond  our  hearing  con 
tinually  besets  us,  and,  like  Siegfried,  we 
are  forever  striving  to  master  this  mys 
terious  melody. 

There  is  in  all  artistic  natures  a  con 
viction  that  a  deep  and  universal  accord 
exists  between  all  created  things,  and 
that  beyond  all  apparent  discords  there 
is  an  eternal  harmony.  This  funda 
mental  unity  philosophy  is  always 
searching  for  and  art  is  always  find 
ing,  and  the  thrill  which  runs  through 
us  when  a  perfect  phrase  falls  on  our 
ears,  or  a  new  glimpse  of  beauty  passes 
before  our  eyes,  is  something  more  than 
the  joy  of  the  aesthetic  sense  ;  it  is  the 
joy  of  the  soul  in  a  new  disclosure  of 
140 


The  Spell  of  Style 

life  itself.  There  is  a  deep  mystery  in 
this  matter  of  harmony  and  of  its  power 
over  us :  the  mystery  which  hides  the  soul 
of  life  and  art.  If  we  could  penetrate 
that  mystery  we  should  master  the  secret 
of  existence,  and  find  truth  and  beauty, 
life  and  its  final  expression,  so  blended 
and  fused  that  we  could  no  more  sepa 
rate  them  than  we  can  separate  the  form, 
the  colour,  and  the  fragrance  of  the 
flower ;  for  they  have  one  root,  and  are 
but  different  manifestations  of  the  same 
vital  force. 

The  psychologists  tell  us  that  every 
man  has  a  rhythm  discoverable  in  his 
walk,  gesture,  voice,  modulation,  and 
sentences ;  a  rhythm  which  is  the  nat 
ural  expression  of  the  man  when  all 
the  elements  of  his  nature  come  into 
harmony,  and  the  inner  and  outward, 
the  spiritual  and  the  physical,  flow  to 
gether  in  perfect  unison.  At  rare  in 
tervals  such  a  man  throws  his  spell  over 
us  with  written  or  spoken  words,  and  we 
are  drawn  out  of  ourselves  and  borne 
141 


My  Study  Fire 

along  by  a  music  of  speech  which  touches 
the  senses  as  delicately  and  surely  as  it 
touches  the  soul.  Such  a  nature  has 
passed  beyond  the  secondary  processes 
of  the  intellect  into  the  region  of  ulti 
mate  truth,  and  speaks,  not  with  the 
divisive  tongue  of  the  Scribe,  but  with 
the  authority  of  Nature  herself.  For  the 
power  of  the  masters  is  a  mystery  even 
to  themselves ;  it  is  a  power  so  largely 
unconscious  that  the  deepest  knowledge 
its  possessor  has  of  it  is  the  knowledge 
that  at  times  he  can  command  it,  and  at 
other  times  it  eludes  him. 

"  I  know  very  well,"  says  Lowell, 
"what  the  charm  of  mere  words  is.  I 
know  very  well  that  our  nerves  of  sensa 
tion  adapt  themselves,  as  the  wood  of 
the  violin  is  said  to  do,  to  certain  mod 
ulations,  so  that  we  receive  them  with 
a  readier  sympathy  at  every  repetition. 
This  is  a  part  of  the  sweet  charm  of  the 
classics."  It  is  a  part,  indeed,  but  only 
a  part ;  the  spell  is  deeper  and  more  last 
ing,  for  it  is  the  spell  which  the  vision 
142 


The  Spell  of  Style 

of  the  whole  has  for  him  who  has  seen 
only  a  part ;  which  a  sudden  glimpse  of 
the  eternal  has  for  him  whose  sight  rests 
on  the  temporal ;  which  a  disclosure  of 
perfection  has  for  him  who  lives  and 
strives  in  a  world  of  fragments.  The 
tones  of  the  violin  get  their  resonance 
and  fulness  from  the  entire  instrument, 
—  from  the  body  no  less  than  from  the 
strings ;  and  the  magical  melody  which 
a  Paganini  evokes  from  it  is  the  harmony 
of  a  perfected  violin.  In  like  manner 
the  magical  spell  lies  within  the  empire 
of  that  man  alone  whose  whole  being  has 
found  its  keynote  and  natural  rhythm. 

This  lets  us  into  the  secret  of  style,  — 
that  elusive  quality  which  forever  sepa 
rates  the  work  of  the  artist  from  that  of 
the  artisan.  For  the  final  form  which  a 
great  thought  or  a  great  emotion  takes 
on  is  as  far  removed  from  accident,  ca 
price,  or  choice  as  are  the  shape  and 
colour  of  the  flower;  it  was  ordained 
before  the  foundations  of  the  world,  by 
the  hand  which  made  all  life  of  a  piece 


My  Study  Fire 

and  decreed  that  the  great  things  should 
grow  by  an  interior  law,  instead  of  being 
fashioned  by  mechanical  skill.  Body, 
mind,  and  spirit  are  so  blended  in  every 
work  of  art  that  they  are  not  only  in 
separable,  but  form  a  living  whole.  Not 
only  is  the  Kalevala,  in  idea,  imagery, 
and  words,  a  creation  out  of  the  soul  of 
the  race  that  fashioned  it,  but  its  metre 
was  determined  by  the  actual  heart-beat 
and  respiratory  action  of  the  men  who, 
age  after  age,  recited  it  from  memory,, 
Every  original  metre  and  all  rhythm 
have  their  roots  in  the  rhythmical  action 
of  the  body ;  language,  arrangement,  and 
selection,  in  the  rhythmical  action  of  the 
mind ;  and  emotion  and  passion,  in  the 
currents  of  the  soul :  so  that  every  real 
poem  is  a  growth  of  the  entire  life  of  a 
man ;  and  the  spell  of  its  deep  harmony 
of  parts,  as  well  as  its  melody  of  words, 
is  compounded  of  his  very  substance. 

This  spell,  which  issues  from  all  art, 
resides  in  no  verbal  sleight  of  hand,  no 
tricks  with  phrases :  it  is  a  sudden  flash- 
144 


The  Spell  of  Style 

ing  out  of  the  perfection  at  the  heart  of 
things ;  and  we  are  thrilled  by  it  because 
in  it  we  recognise  what  is  deepest  and 
divinest  in  our  own  natures.  If  this 
spell  were  at  the  command  of  any  kind 
of  dexterity,  it  would  be  sought  and 
gained  by  a  host  of  mechanical  experts ; 
but  it  is  the  despair  of  the  dexterous  and 
the  strenuous :  it  is  as  elusive  as  the 
wind,  and  as  completely  beyond  human 
control.  Nothing  is  more  certain  than 
that  Shakespeare  has  a  style ;  he  has  a 
way  of  saying  things  so  entirely  his  own 
that  one  is  never  at  a  loss  to  identify  his 
phrase  in  any  company ;  indeed,  it  is 
not  too  much  to  say  that  if  some  stray 
line  of  his  were  to  come  to  light,  with  no 
formal  trace  of  authorship  about  it,  the 
great  poet  would  not  be  despoiled  of  his 
own  for  an  hour.  And  yet  no  one  has 
ever  imitated  Shakespeare  !  The  Shake 
spearean  idiom  is  absolutely  incommuni 
cable.  The  secondary  work  of  Milton 
has  often  been  copied,  —  it  is,  indeed, 
easily  imitated,  for  it  is  full  of  manner- 

10  145 


My  Study  Fire 

In  like  manner,  there  has  always  been 
an  oratory  which  was  something  more 
than  spoken  thought,  which  has  had  all 
the  elements  of  art,  and  has  been,  there 
fore,  to  the  men  who  came  under  its 
spell,  spoken  literature.  The  great  mass 
of  speaking  is,  necessarily,  for  the  mo 
ment  only;  it  has  an  immediate  object; 
it  is  addressed  to  a  special  audience ; 
it  finds  its  inspiration  in  an  occasion. 
Such  speaking  is  often  forcible,  witty, 
eloquent,  and  effective ;  but  it  is  not 
literature.  It  is  distinctly  ephemeral, 
and,  having  accomplished  its  purpose,  it 
is  forgotten,  like  all  other  tools  and  im 
plements  of  construction.  The  oratory 
which  is  literature,  on  the  other  hand, 
touches  great  themes,  allies  itself  with 
beauty  or  majesty  of  form,  and,  although 
addressed  to  an  immediate  and  visible 
audience,  makes  its  final  appeal  to  that 
unseen  but  innumerable  company  who, 
in  succeeding  ages,  gather  silently  about 
the  great  artists  and  are  charmed  and  in 
spired  by  these  unforgotten  masters. 
148 


The  Speech  as  Literature 

To  this  company  of  orators  who  made 
speech  literature  by  dignity  of  theme, 
breadth  of  view,  beauty  of  form,  and  har 
mony  of  delivery,  George  William  Curtis 
belonged.  He  was  not  the  greatest  of 
those  who,  in  this  New  World,  have 
used  the  platform  as  a  vantage-ground 
of  leadership.  He  had  not  the  organ- 
tones  of  Webster,  nor  the  incisive  style 
and  matchless  vocal  skill  of  Phillips,  nor 
the  compass  of  Beecher ;  but  in  that  fine 
harmony  of  theme,  treatment,  style,  and 
personality  which  make  the  speech  lit 
erature,  he  surpassed  them  all.  Less 
effective  for  the  moment  than  Phillips, 
his  art  has  a  finer  fibre  and  a  more 
enduring  charm.  When  he  spoke,  it 
seemed  as  if  one  were  present  at  the 
creation  of  a  piece  of  literature.  He  saw 
his  theme  in  such  large  relations,  he 
touched  it  with  a  hand  so  true  and  so 
delicate,  he  phrased  his  thought  with  such 
lucid  and  winning  refinement  and  skill, 
his  bearing,  enunciation,  voice,  and 
gesture  were  so  harmonious,  that  what 
149 


My  Study  Fire 

In  like  manner,  there  has  always  been 
an  oratory  which  was    something    more 
than  spoken  thought,  which  has  had  all 
the  elements  of  art,  and  has  been,  there 
fore,  to    the    men  who    came  under    its 
spell,  spoken  literature.     The  great  mass 
of  speaking  is,  necessarily,  for  the  mo 
ment  only;  it  has  an  immediate  object; 
it   is    addressed    to    a   special    audience; 
:  finds  its  inspiration    in    an    occasion. 
Such  speaking  is    often    forcible,    witty, 
eloquent,    and    effective;  but    it    is    not 
literature.      It     is    distinctly    ephemeral, 
and,  having  accomplished  its  purpose,  it 
is  forgotten,  like  all  other  tools  and  im 
plements  of  construction.     The  oratory 
which  is  literature,   on  the   other   hand, 
touches   great   themes,  allies   itself  with 
beauty  or  majesty  of  form,  and,  although 
addressed    to   an   immediate   and  visible 
audience,  makes  its  final  appeal  to  that 
unseen  but  innumerable  company  who, 
in  succeeding  ages,  gather  silently  about 
the  great  artists  and  are  charmed  and  in 
spired  by  these  unforgotten  masters. 
148 


The  Speech  as  Literature 

To  this  company  of  orators  who  made 
speech  literature  by  dignity  of  theme, 
breadth  of  view,  beauty  of  form,  and  har 
mony  of  delivery,  George  William  Curtis 
belonged.  He  was  not  the  greatest  of 
those  who,  in  this  New  World,  have 
used  the  platform  as  a  vantage-ground 
of  leadership.  He  had  not  the  organ- 
tones  of  Webster,  nor  the  incisive  style 
and  matchless  vocal  skill  of  Phillips,  nor 
the  compass  of  Beecher  ;  but  in  that  fine 
harmony  of  theme,  treatment,  style,  and 
personality  which  make  the  speech  lit 
erature,  he  surpassed  them  all.  Less 
effective  for  the  moment  than  Phillips, 
his  art  has  a  finer  fibre  and  a  more 
enduring  charm.  When  he  spoke,  it 
seemed  as  if  one  were  present  at  the 
creation  of  a  piece  of  literature.  He  saw 
his  theme  in  such  large  relations,  he 
touched  it  with  a  hand  so  true  and  so 
delicate,  he  phrased  his  thought  with  such 
lucid  and  winning  refinement  and  skill, 
his  bearing,  enunciation,  voice,  and 
gesture  were  so  harmonious,  that  what 
149 


My  Study  Fire 

he  said  and  his  manner  of  saying  it 
seemed  all  of  a  piece,  and  the  product 
was  a  beautiful  bit  of  art,  —  something 
incapable  of  entire  preservation,  and  yet 
possessing  the  quality  of  the  things  that 
endure.  The  enchantments  of  speech 
were  his  beyond  any  man  of  his  genera 
tion,  and  he  gave  them  a  grace  of  man 
ner  which  deepened  and  expanded  their 
charm. 

Perhaps  the  most  obvious  characteris 
tic  of  Mr.  Curtis's  oratory  was  its  har 
mony.  There  were  no  dissonances  in  it ; 
there  was  none  of  that  falling  apart  of 
thought  and  expression  which  so  con 
stantly  mars  the  charm  of  public  address. 
Thought,  language,  voice,  and  gesture 
flowed  together,  and  ran  at  times  like  a 
shining  stream,  rippling  into  humour, 
breaking  into  musical  cadences,  but 
sweeping  on  with  continuous  and  un 
broken  flow.  Such  speech  was  literature 
in  a  very  high  sense,  because  it  was  es 
sentially  art,  —  native  force,  a  trained 
personality,  and  a  sure  and  varied  crafts- 


The  Speech  as  Literature 

manship  combining  in  a  result  which  ob 
literated  all  trace  of  processes,  and  existed 
only  as  a  complete  expression  of  a  high 
and  noble  nature.  For  there  was  no  dis 
sonance  between  Mr.  Curtis's  aims  and 
spirit  and  his  oratory.  The  fatal  fluency 
which  makes  a  man  the  characterless  re 
flection  of  the  mood  and  moment  was 
utterly  alien  to  him ;  he  was  free  from 
that  beguiling  immorality  to  which  so 
many  men  of  easy  speech  fall  a  prey,  — 
the  immorality  of  high-flying  rhetoric 
and  low-flying  thought  and  aim.  He 
held  himself  above  his  gift,  and  turned 
all  its  possibilities  of  temptation  into 
sources  of  power  and  influence.  For  he 
spoke  out  of  a  deep  sincerity,  and  with 
a  steadfastness  of  purpose  which  made 
his  long  public  life  one  long  integrity. 
There  was  a  great  personal  peril  in  an 
optimism  so  persistently  avowed,  in  an 
ideal  of  life  so  steadily  held  aloft  in  speech 
as  splendid  as  itself,  —  the  peril  of  mak 
ing  the  speaker's  life  meagre  and  dwarfed 


My  Study  Fire 

in  contrast  with  the  richness  and  beauty 
of  his  art.  But  Mr.  Curtis's  life  and  his 
art  were  of  a  piece  ;  and,  while  his  judg 
ment  was  not  free  from  the  errors  which 
beset  all  human  judgment,  no  man  can 
point  to  any  severance  between  the  image 
of  life  which  he  revealed  to  the  souls  of 
countless  young  men  and  the  life  he  lived 
with  tireless  industry  and  unflagging  en 
ergy  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

The  harmony  which  characterised  his 
addresses  was  significant  of  the  artistic 
quality  which  he  possessed  in  very  rare 
degree.  It  is  true  that  his  life  ran  very 
largely  in  ethical  channels,  and  that  he 
used  the  platform  especially  to  influence 
the  wills  of  his  auditors  and  to  inspire 
them  to  definite  courses  of  action ;  but 
even  in  dealing  with  moral  questions  he 
was  pre-eminently  an  artist.  Right 
thought  and  right  action  seemed  to  him 
essential  to  harmonious  living;  and  he 
was  moved  not  so  much  by  the  wrong 
against  which  he  spoke  as  by  the  ideal 
152 


The  Speech  as  Literature 

of  symmetrical  life  which  its  very  exist 
ence  violated  and  jeopardised.  He  was 
long  in  the  very  thick  of  the  bitterest 
controversy  of  the  century,  but  there  was 
always  a  finer  note  than  that  of  antag 
onism  in  his  pleas  and  arguments  ;  he 
touched  the  great  chords  of  justice,  free 
dom,  and  brotherhood.  A  reformer  of 
a  radical  type,  he  always  rose  out  of  the 
atmosphere  of  agitation ;  it  was  not  de 
struction  which  he  sought,  —  it  was  the 
demolition  of  the  false  construction,  in 
order  that  the  noble  lines  of  the  true 
structure  might  become  as  clear  to  others 
as  they  were  to  him.  Whether  he 
pleaded  for  the  emancipation  of  the  slave 
or  the  removal  of  the  last  vestige  of 
restriction  on  the  private  and  public 
action  of  women,  he  spoke  always  as  one 
before  whose  eyes  a  great  vision  of  the 
future  shines,  and  in  whose  soul  that 
vision  has  become  an  article  of  faith.  It 
was  completeness  and  harmony  of  life 
which  he  sought;  and  while  his  ethical 
sense  had  a  Puritan  keenness  and  author- 


My  Study  Fire 

ity,  it  had  also  the  wider  vision  and  the 
broader  relationships  of  one  who  sees  life 
as  a  whole,  and  who  sees  it  as  a  great 
harmony,  whose  final  and  eternal  expres 
sion  is  beauty. 

Art  is  so  precious,  and,  in  these  later 
days,  so  rare  and  so  difficult  of  posses 
sion,  that  it  is  hard  to  reconcile  one's  self 
to  the  disappearance  of  such  an  artist  as 
Mr.  Curtis.  For,  while  the  words  which 
he  spoke  remain,  the  charm,  the  delicacy, 
the  spell,  can  never  be  recalled ;  they  are 
a  part  of  that  spoken  literature  which  has 
often  calmed  or  stirred  the  hearts  of  men, 
but  which  perishes  even  in  the  moment 
of  its  flowering.  And  yet,  in  a  deep 
sense,  all  art  is  imperishable ;  for  the 
goal  of  ultimate  excellence  can  never  be 
touched  in  any  generation  without  im 
parting  that  deep  and  noble  delight  which 
is  the  swift  recognition  by  every  soul  of 
its  own  ideals.  When  art  comes  back  to 
us  once  more,  in  some  riper  and  sweeter 
time,  perhaps  we  shall  care  more  for  the 
delight  of  its  birth  than  for  its  power  to 


The  Speech  as  Literature 

persist.  When  the  streams  run  with  brim 
ming  current,  we  are  indifferent  to  the 
reservoirs;  our  joy  is  not  in  the  volume 
of  water,  but  in  the  sweep  and  rush  of 
the  living  tide. 


Chapter  XIX 

A  Poet  of  Aspiration 

THERE  are  few  names  in  this  cen 
tury  which  have  had,  for  young 
men  especially,  greater  attractive  power 
than  that  of  Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 
This  power  has  never  been  widely,  but 
in  many  cases  it  has  been  deeply,  felt. 
It  has  its  source  more  in  the  nature  of 
the  man  and  in  the  conditions  of  his  life 
than  in  his  work,  although  the  latter  is 
full  of  the  elevation,  the  aspiration,  and 
the  beauty  of  a  very  noble  mind.  But 
it  is  not  as  a  finished  artist,  as  a  singer 
whose  message  is  clear  and  whose  note 
is  resonant,  that  Clough  attracts ;  it  is 
rather  as  a  child  of  his  time,  as  one  in 
whom  the  stir  and  change  of  the  century 
were  most  distinctly  reflected.  There 
was  an  intense  sympathy  with  his  age  in 

' 


A  Poet  of  Aspiration 

the  heart  of  Clough,  a  sensitiveness  to 
the  tidal  influences  of  thought  and  emo 
tion,  which  made  his  impressionable 
nature,  for  a  time  at  least,  a  prey  to  agi 
tation  and  turmoil ;  and  there  is  no  more 
delicate  registry  of  the  tempestuous 
weather  of  the  second  quarter  of  the 
century  than  that  which  is  found  in  his 
work. 

It  was  in  November,  1836,  that 
Clough,  a  boy  of  seventeen,  exchanged 
school  life  at  Rugby  for  college  life  at 
Oxford.  He  had  always  been  in  ad 
vance  of  his  opportunities ;  he  had  led 
each  form  successively ;  he  was  the  best 
swimmer  and  the  first  runner  in  the 
school;  he  was  so  manly,  genuine,  and 
wholly  lovable  that  when  he  left  for  Ox 
ford  every  boy  in  the  school  waited  to 
shake  hands  with  him;  his  scholarly 
prominence  was  so  marked  that  in  his 
last  year  Dr.  Arnold  broke  the  silence 
which  he  invariably  had  preserved  in 
awarding  prizes,  and  publicly  congratu 
lated  him  on  having  secured  every  prize 


My  Study  Fire 

and  won  every  honour  which  Rugby 
offered,  and  crowned  his  achievements 
by  gaining  the  Balliol  scholarship,  then 
and  now  the  highest  honour  open  to 
the  English  school-boy.  With  such  a 
record  of  fidelity  and  ability  behind  him, 
Clough  entered  upon  his  career  at  Ox 
ford.  He  had  not  won  the  heart  and 
enjoyed  the  teaching  of  Arnold  without 
some  comprehension  of  the  largeness  of 
thought  and  the  noble  intellectual  sym 
pathy  which  made  his  master  the  ideal 
teacher  of  his  time ;  his  mind  was  already 
playing,  with  a  boy's  eager  and  buoyant 
expectancy,  about  the  problems  of  the 
age.  He  had  learned  already  that  loyalty 
to  truth,  whatever  it  costs  and  wherever 
it  leads,  is  the  only  basis  of  a  life  of 
intellectual  integrity.  At  Rugby  he  left 
one  of  the  largest,  freest,  and  most  pro 
gressive  minds  of  a  generation  rich  in 
men  of  commanding  ability ;  at  Oxford 
he  met  those  persuasive,  subtle,  and 
eloquent  teachers  who  were  to  lead  the 
greatest  reactionary  movement  of  the 
158 


A  Poet  of  Aspiration 

time.  John  Henry  Newman,  luminous 
in  thought,  fervent  in  spirit,  winning  in 
speech,  was  steadily  drawing  away  from 
modern  life  to  the  repose  and  authority 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  very  air 
throbbed  with  the  stir  of  a  conflict  which 
drew  all  sensitive  minds  within  the  circle 
of  its  agitation,  and  the  eager  expectancy 
which  filled  the  hearts  of  the  leaders 
seemed  to  promise  a  new  day  of  spirit 
ual  impulse  and  ecclesiastical  splendour. 
Then,  if  ever,  was  realised  that  beautiful 
vision  of  Oxford  which  Dr.  Arnold's  son 
has  given  to  the  world,  when  she  lay 
"  spreading  her  gardens  to  the  moonlight, 
and  whispering  from  her  towers  the  last 
enchantments  of  the  middle  age." 

Clough,  in  the  fulness  of  his  early  in 
tellectual  awakening,  had  already  passed 
beyond  the  spell  even  of  an  enchant 
ment  so  alluring  and  magical  as  that 
which  Newman's  eloquence  was  throw 
ing  around  many  an  eager  spirit ;  he  had 
gone  too  far  on  the  road  to  a  free  and 
noble  mental  life  ever  to  turn  back  and 
'59 


My  Study  Fire 

sit  once  more  in  the  shadows  that  fell 
from  cathedral  towers,  and  leave  to  others 
the  guidance  and  direction  of  his  thought. 
But  no  young  man  could  live  in  that 
seething  vortex  and  not  be  driven  hither 
and  thither  by  the  mere  force  of  the 
currents  of  thought;  for  two  years,  he 
says,  "  I  was  like  a  straw  drawn  up  the 
draught  of  a  chimney."  He  had  passed 
from  the  influence  of  one  of  the  freest  to 
the  influence  of  one  of  the  most  reaction 
ary  minds  of  the  day,  and  the  tumult 
of  conflicting  opinion  compelled  him  to 
examine  and  re-examine  questions  the 
consideration  of  which  belongs  to  ma- 
turer  years.  Amid  the  conflict  which 
went  on  about  and  within  him,  he  car 
ried  himself  with  such  a  steady  resolution 
and  with  such  a  calmness  of  faith  in  the 
victory  of  truth  that  among  his  contem 
poraries  he  was  soon  felt  as  an  independ 
ent  force,  preserving  amid  the  agitation 
the  quietude  of  soul  which  is  the  posses 
sion  of  the  true  thinker.-  Clough  was 
not  long  overwhelmed  and  tossed  help- 
160 


A  Poet  of  Aspiration 

lessly  from  one  side  to  the  other  of  the 
whirling  vortex  of  discussion ;  he  was 
stimulated  by  the  agitation  into  larger 
and  freer  play  of  mind  upon  the  great 
questions  of  life,  and  he  was  filled  —  as 
an  open  mind  cannot  but  be  filled  when 
all  the  elements  are  in  motion  —  with 
the  hope  of  a  nobler  world  of  faith  some 
day  to  roll  out  of  the  cloud  and  darkness. 
In  this  eager  expectancy,  this  pure  and 
breathless  aspiration,  he  may  well  stand 
in  our  thought  for  a  whole  group  of  men 
upon  whom  the  questioning  of  this  cen 
tury  has  come,  not  to  paralyse,  but  to 
inspire.  Let  him  speak  for  himself: 

JTis  but  the  cloudy  darkness  dense  ; 

Though  blank  the  tale  it  tells, 
No  God,  no  Truth !  yet  He,  in  sooth, 

Within  the  sceptic  darkness  deep 
He  dwells  that  none  may  see, 

Till  idol  forms  and  idol  thoughts 
Have  passed  and  ceased  to  be  : 

No  God,  no  Truth  !  ah,  though,  in  sooth, 
So  stand  the  doctrine's  half; 

On  Egypt's  track  return  not  back, 
Nor  own  the  Golden  Calf. 
ii  161 


My  Study  Fire 

Take  better  part,  with  manlier  heart, 

Thine  adult  spirit  can  ; 
No  God,  no  Truth  !  receive  it  ne'er  — 

Believe  it  ne'er  —  O  man  ! 

No  God,  it  saith  ;  ah,  wait  in  faith 

God's  self-completing  plan ; 
Receive  it  not,  but  leave  it  not, 

And  wait  it  out,  O  man ! 

Defective  as  poetry,  these  verses  ex 
press,  nevertheless,  the  spirit  and  attitude 
of  a  free,  religious  nature,  and  they  have 
the  charm  of  Clough's  habitual  veracity. 
And  where  shall  we  find  a  truer  expres 
sion  of  the  feeling  which  lies  deepest  in 
the  heart  of  this  century  than  that  con 
tained  in  these  striking  verses  : 

Go  from  the  East  to  the  West,  as  the  sun  and  the 

stars  direct  thee, 
Go  with  the  girdle  of  man,  go  and  encompass  the 

earth. 
Not  for  the  gain  of  the  gold  —  for  the  getting,  the 

hoarding,  the  having, 
But  for  the  joy  of  the  deed ;  but  for  the  Duty 

to  do. 

162 


A  Poet  of  Aspiration 

Go  with  the  spiritual  life,  the  higher  volition  and 

action, 
With  the  great  girdle  of  God,  go  and  encompass  the 

earth. 

Go ;  say  not  in  thy  heart  And  what  then  were  it 

accomplished, 
Were  the  wild  impulse  allayed,  what  were  the  use 

or  the  good  ! 
Go,  when  the  instinct  is  stilled,  and  when  the  deed 

is  accomplished, 
What  thou  hast  done  and  shalt  do  shall  be  declared 

to  thee  then. 
Go  with  the  sun  and  the  stars,  and  yet  evermore  in 

thy  spirit 

Say  to  thyself:  It  is  good  ;  yet  is  there  better  than  it. 
This  that  I  see  is  not  all,  and  this  that  I  do  is  but 

little ; 
Nevertheless  it  is  good,  though  there  is  better  than 

it. 

It  is  the  spirit  of  youth  which  breathes 
in  these  impressive  lines  and  gives  them 
a  tonic  quality.  At  a  time  when  so 
much  diseased  and  cowardly  thought 
finds  its  record  in  verse,  it  seems  almost 
a  duty  to  recall  the  large  and  hopeful 
163 


My  Study  Fire 

utterance  of  a  sane  and  healthy  nature, 
in  full  sympathy  with  the  time,  and  often 
in  genuine  anguish  of  spirit  because  of 
it,  and  yet  serene  and  aspiring  to  the 
very  end. 


164 


Chapter  XX 

The  Reading  Public 

MR.  HO  WELLS,  who  is  not  only 
a  prolific  and  successful  writer, 
but  a  faithful  custodian  of  the  dignity  of 
his  craft,  has  recently  said  that  publishers 
have  their  little  superstitions  and  their 
"  blind  faith  in  the  great  god  Chance." 
This  worship  of  the  uncertain  deity  is  per 
haps  explained  by  the  statement  that  — 

a  book  sells  itself,  or  does  not  sell  at  all.  .  .  . 
With  the  best  or  the  worst  will  in  the  world, 
no  publisher  can  force  a  book  into  acceptance. 
Advertising  will  not  avail,  and  reviewing  is 
notoriously  futile.  If  the  book  does  not  strike 
the  popular  fancy,  or  deal  with  some  universal 
interest,  which  need  by  no  means  be  a  pro 
found  or  important  one,  the  drums  and  the 
cymbals  shall  be  beaten  in  vain.  The  book 
may  be  one  of  the  best  and  wisest  books  in 
the  world,  but  if  it  has  not  this  sort  of  appeal 
165 


My  Study  Fire 

in  it,  the  readers  of  it,  and  worse  yet,  the  pur 
chasers,  will  remain  few,  though  fit.  The 
secret  of  this,  like  most  other  secrets  of  a  rather 
ridiculous  world,  is  in  the  awful  keeping  of 
fate,  and  we  can  hope  to  surprise  it  only  by 
some  lucky  chance. 

These  are  the  words  of  a  man  who,  by 

virtue  of  the  quality  of  his  work  and  the 
long-continued  and  close  relations  he 
has  maintained  with  what  is  popularly 
called  the  reading  public  in  this  country, 
has  every  right  to  claim  attention  when 
he  speaks  on  such  a  subject.  The  pub 
lisher  of  largest  experience  is,  as  a  rule, 
freest  to  confess  his  inability  to  predict 
in  advance  the  fate  of  a  book  by  a  new 
author,  or,  for  that  matter,  the  fate  of 
any  particular  book ;  and  this  fact  seems 
to  prove  that  there  is  in  the  business 
of  offering  literary  work  to  the  public  a 
large  element  of  what,  for  lack  of  a  better 
name,  the  publisher  calls  luck  or  chance. 
And  yet  the  mind  rebels  against  the 
presence  of  so  unintelligent  a  factor  as 
chance  in  the  relation  of  readers  to  lit- 
166 


The  Reading  Public 

erature;  for  literature  is  not  only  the 
greatest  of  arts,  but  stands  in  most  inti 
mate  relations  with  those  who  come  un 
der  its  influence,  and  there  is  a  certain 
profanation  in  the  determination  of  such 
a  relation  by  the  accident  of  a  manner 
which  fits  the  mood  of  the  moment,  or 
of  a  style  which  captures  the  wayward  or 
idle  fancy  of  the  passing  crowd.  The 
mind  revolts  against  chance  as  a  deter 
mining  factor  in  any  field,  but  the  per 
sistency  of  its  revolt  in  this  particular 
field  is  evidenced  by  the  constantly  re 
peated  effort  to  secure  trustworthy  data 
regarding  the  relative  popularity  of  books. 
These  efforts  assume  that  there  are  prin 
ciples  of  taste  or  conditions  of  culture 
determining  the  choice  of  books,  which 
may  be  discovered  if  the  data  can  be 
collected.  Such  attempts  to  ascertain 
the  tastes  of  the  reading  public  are  often, 
no  doubt,  stimulated  by  curiosity  ;  but 
the  subject  is  one  of  prime  importance, 
not  only  to  the  writer  and  the  publisher, 
but  to  the  community  at  large;  since 
167 


My  Study  Fire 

there  is  no  more  decisive  test  of  intelli 
gence  than  the  quality  and  character  of 
the  books  most  widely  read. 

In  this  country  one  great  difficulty  in 
dealing  with  the  matter  lies  in  the  fact 
that  there  are,  not  one,  but  many,  read 
ing  publics  which  are  mutually  exclusive 
of  one  another ;  for  the  public  that  con 
cerns  itself  with  Dante  and  Goethe,  for 
instance,  is  not  only  indifferent  to  the 
productions  of  the  cheap  novelist,  but  is 
in  blissful  ignorance  of  the  depressing 
fact  that  her  productions  are  sold  by  the 
thousand  at  the  news-stands.  A  homo 
geneous  reading  public  does  not  exist,  at 
this  moment,  in  this  country,  although 
there  is  good  reason  to  believe  that  we 
are  on  the  way  to  form  such  a  commu 
nity.  It  may  be  that  we  shall  not  pro 
duce  our  greatest  books  until  we  have 
first  secured,  not  only  the  possibility  of 
a  wide  and  representative  appreciation  of 
them,  but  that  pressure  for  expression 
of  deep  and  universal  emotion  and 
thought  which  fairly  forces  great  books 
1 63 


The  Reading  Public 

into  being.  The  closest  relation  between 
the  writer  and  the  public  which  has  ever 
existed  produced,  or  at  least  recognised 
at  the  first  glance,  the  most  perfect  lit 
erature  the  world  has  yet  known.  The 
Athenian  writer  of  the  great  period  was 
so  intimate  with  his  audience  that  his 
constant  appeal  was  not  to  his  own  con 
sciousness,  but  to  theirs ;  and  to  every 
allusion  in  the  play,  the  dramatist  knew 
that  the  whole  city,  assembled  about  the 
stage,  would  instantly  respond.  Inac 
curacy,  false  sentiment,  or  defective  art 
could  not  survive  the  ordeal  of  a  presen 
tation  so  close  and  a  hearing  at  once  so 
swiftly  appreciative  and  so  relentlessly 
critical.  The  Athenian  audience  did  not 
read,  it  listened  ;  and  to  the  sensitive  im 
agination  of  the  writer  there  must  have 
been  a  compelling  power  in  the  silent  ur- 
gence  of  a  craving  for  race-expression  at 
once  so  intense  and  so  exacting.  Such  an 
appeal  could  have  come  only  from  a  con 
stituency  united  by  homogeneous  ideas, 
traditions,  and  intelligence.  The  chief 
169 


My  Study  Fire 

value  of  this  fact  for  us  lies  in  the  illus 
tration  which  it  offers  of  the  normal,  that 
is  to  say  the  highest,  relation  between 
writers  and  readers. 

Among  English-speaking  people  the 
existence  of  a  reading  public  —  a  body 
of  readers,  that  is,  representative  of  all 
classes  —  does  not  date  farther  back  than 
the  time  of  De  Foe,  whose  "  True-Born 
Englishman  "  was  one  of  the  first  pieces 
of  writing  in  our  language  to  secure,  by 
reason  of  its  timely  interest  and  its  char 
acteristic  vigour,  a  national  reading.  The 
people  who,  a  little  later,  found  delight 
in  the  society  of  "The  Spectator"  were 
no  small  company,  but  they  must  have 
been,  from  the  nature  of  those  charming 
chapters  of  Addisonian  comment  and 
chronicle,  a  homogeneous  group,  sharing 
a  certain  degree  of  social  opportunity  and 
general  culture.  And  this  statement 
holds  true  of  the  constituency  of  the 
greater  part  of  the  writers  of  the  last 
century,  who,  despite  many  differences 
of  talent  and  method,  held  certain  literary 
170 


The  Reading  Public 

traditions  in  common,  and  rarely  strayed 
beyond  the  horizon  of  the  small  world 
of  cultivated  people. 

In  this  century,  however,  writers  have 
come  to  deal  in  the  most  direct  and  un 
compromising  manner  with  every  form 
of  human  experience  ;  while,  at  the  same 
time,  the  wide  diffusion  of  elementary 
education  and  the  ease  with  which  books 
of  every  kind  are  set  up,  printed,  bound, 
and  offered  for  sale,  have  formed  a  large 
reading  public  without  intellectual  train 
ing,  and  have  supplied  this  public  with  a 
mass  of  books  devoid  of  all  literary 
quality,  and  having  nothing  in  common 
with  literature  save  the  outward  aspect 
of  page,  type,  and  cover.  The  knowledge 
of  good  and  evil  in  art,  which  can  hardly 
be  said  to  have  come  to  the  Athenian, 
so  uniformly  high  was  the  quality  of  the 
work  offered  him,  is  possessed  in  fullest 
measure  by  the  reading  publics  of  to 
day  ;  and  it  is  this  very  fact  which  gives 
their  choice  of  books  its  significance. 
For  there  is  to-day,  for  the  first  time, 
171 


My  Study  Fire 

entire  freedom  of  choice  ;  there  have  been 
worthless  books  before,  but  they  were 
never  so  numerous,  so  accessible,  and  so 
low  in  price  as  during  the  last  twenty- 
five  years.  They  are  thrust  upon  us  at 
every  turn,  at  prices  which  bring  them 
within  reach  of  the  meditative  bootblack. 
When  it  was  difficult  to  find  publishers 
for  worthless  books,  and  necessary  to  sell 
them  at  prices  which  put  them  on  the 
top  shelf  so  far  as  the  poorer  people  were 
concerned,  there  was,  naturally,  a  very 
small  publication  of  such  books,  and  a 
still  smaller  constituency  for  them.  It  is 
well  to  remember,  therefore,  that  the  old 
audience  of  cultivated  readers  has  not 
ceased  to  exist,  —  there  is  every  reason  to 
believe  that  it  constantly  grows  larger,  — 
but  it  is  swallowed  up  in  a  vast  assem 
blage  of  readers  gathered  from  all  classes 
in  the  community,  and  furnished  with  a 
practically  unlimited  supply  of  reading- 
matter  of  every  kind.  If  our  sins  are 
more  numerous  than  the  sins  of  our 
fathers,  let  us  do  ourselves  the  justice  to 
172 


The  Reading  Public 

remember  that  our  temptations  are  mul 
tiplied  many  fold ;  and  that  while  they 
had  to  seek  evil  and  pay  for  it,  we  must 
strive  in  all  public  conveyances  to  keep 
it  out  of  our  hands,  at  a  price  which, 
under  the  delusion  of  getting  something 
for  nothing,  becomes  a  new  temptation. 


Chapter  XXI 

Sanity  and  Art 

IN  reading  Homer,  Dante,  Shake 
speare,  and  Goethe,  one  is  con 
stantly  impressed  not  only  with  the 
range  and  power  of  these  great  artists, 
but  with  their  sanity  and  health.  Their 
supreme  authority  in  the  realm  of  art 
resides  as  much  in  their  clearness  of 
vision  as  in  their  artistic  quality;  they 
were  essentially  sound  and  wholesome 
natures.  They  had  the  fresh  perception, 
the  true  vision,  the  self-control,  of  health. 
The  world  was  not  distorted  or  over 
shadowed  to  them ;  they  saw  it  as  it 
was,  and  they  reported  it  as  they  saw  it. 
Health  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  great  quali 
ties  of  the  highest  art,  because  veracity 
of  mind  and  of  emotion  depends  largely 
upon  health,  and  veracity  lies  at  the  base 
of  all  enduring  art.  To  the  reader  of 


Sanity  and  Art 

contemporary  books  Homer  is  the  great 
est  of  antiseptics ;  after  so  many  records 
of  diseased  minds,  so  many  confessions 
of  morbid  souls,  the  "  Odyssey "  is  a 
whiff  of  air  from  the  sea,  borne  into  the 
suffocating  midsummer  atmosphere  of  a 
city  street.  To  exchange  Marie  Bash- 
kirtseff's  "  Journal "  for  the  great  epic 
of  the  sea  is  like  coming  out  of  some 
vaporous  tropical  swamp  into  the  sweep 
of  the  ocean  currents,  free  airs  blowing 
from  every  quarter,  and  the  whole  stretch 
of  sky  visible  from  horizon  to  horizon. 
Mr.  Higginson  has  somewhere  told  the 
story  of  an  English  scholar  who  gave  his 
entire  time  to  Homer,  reading  the cc  Iliad " 
three  or  four  times  every  winter,  and  the 
"  Odyssey  "  as  many  times  every  summer. 
There  might  be  a  certain  contraction  of 
interests  in  such  a  life,  but  there  could 
hardly  be  any  disease. 

Vitality,  the  power  to  live  deeply  and 

richly,  is  perhaps  the  surest  evidence  of 

greatness ;   to  be  great,  one  must  have 

compass  and  range  of  life.     The  glorious 

175 


My  Study  Fire 

fulness  of  strength  which  prompts  a  man 
not  to  skirt  the  shore  of  the  sea  of  ex 
perience,  but  to  plunge  into  its  depths, 
has  something  divine  in  it;  it  confirms 
our  latent  faith  in  the  high  origin  and 
destiny  of  humanity.  The  ascetic  saints, 
about  whose  pale  brows  the  mediaeval 
imagination  saw  the  halo  slowly  form, 
were  noble  in  self-sacrifice  and  heroic 
purity ;  but  there  will  come  a  higher 
type  of  goodness,  —  the  goodness  which 
triumphs  by  inclusion,  not  by  exclusion ; 
by  mastering  and  directing  the  physical 
impulses,  the  primitive  forces,  not  by 
denying  them.  For  the  highest  spiritual 
achievement  is  not  for  those  who  shun 
life,  but  for  those  who  share  it,  and  the 
sublimest  victory  is  to  him  who  meets 
all  foes  in  the  open  field. 

The  first  tumultuous  outburst  of  vital 
ity,  often  very  unconventional  in  its 
manifestations,  is  not  to  be  confused 
with  vice,  which  is  always  and  every 
where  a  kind  of  disease.  "  We  are 
somewhat  mad  here,  and  play  the  devil's 
176 


Sanity  and  Art 

own  game,"  wrote  Goethe  to  Merck 
during  that  first  wild  winter  at  Weimar, 
when  Wieland  could  find  no  epithet  but 
wiithig  to  describe  him,  and  the  good 
Klopstock  wrote  his  famous  letter  of  ex 
postulation  and  warning,  and  received 
his  still  more  famous  and  stinging  reply. 
No  doubt  the  strong  currents  of  life 
overflowed  the  normal  barriers  in  those 
gay  months  when  the  Ilm  blazed  with 
torches  at  night  and  the  masked  skaters 
swept  past  to  the  strains  of  music,  the 
Poet  and  his  Duke  leading  the  riot. 
But  it  was  a  festival  of  youth  far  more 
than  an  outbreak  of  vice,  as  the  sternest 
censors  soon  saw;  and  in  that  splendid 
vitality  there  was  the  prophecy  of  eighty- 
four  years  of  unhasting  and  unresting 
energy. 

The  early  letters  of  Scott  nave  a 
delightful  freshness  and  buoyancy  born 
of  the  man's  soundness  of  nature,  —  a 
soundness  which  was  untouched  by  the 
mistakes  and  misfortunes  of  his  later  life ; 
and  the  perennial  charm  of  the  Waverley 
12  177 


My  Study  Fire 

Novels  resides  very  largely  in  their  health- 
fulness.  They  take  us  entirely  out  of 
ourselves,  and  absorb  us  in  the  world  of 
incident  and  action.  If  they  are  not 
always  great  as  works  of  art,  they  are 
always  great  in  that  health  of  mind  and 
soul  which  is  elemental  in  all  true  living. 
Men  cannot  be  too  grateful  for  a  mass 
of  writing  so  genuine  in  tone,  so  free 
from  morbid  tendencies,  so  true  to  the 
fundamental  ethics  of  living. 

Disease  is  essentially  repulsive  to  all 
healthy  natures ;  it  is  abnormal,  and, 
although  pathetically  common,  it  is  in 
a  sense  unnatural.  It  seems  like  a  viola 
tion  of  the  natural  order ;  and,  in  the  long 
run  it  is,  since  it  finds  its  cause  or  oppor 
tunity  in  the  violation  of  some  law  of 
life.  We  never  accustom  ourselves  to 
it,  and  we  never  cease  to  resent  it  as  the 
intrusion  of  a  foreign  element  into  the 
normal  development  of  life,  and  an  inter 
ference  with  the  free  play  of  its  forces. 
And  our  instinct  is  sound :  disease  is 
unnatural ;  it  is  a  deflection  from  the 
178 


Sanity  and  Art 

normal  line  and  order.  Its  victim  is, 
for  that  reason,  incompetent  to  report 
the  facts  of  life  correctly,  or  to  reach 
trustworthy  conclusions  in  regard  to  it. 
Because  it  is  a  deflection  from  the  line 
of  health  and  a  departure  from  the  normal 
order,  disease  has  rightly  a  deep  and  pain 
ful  interest ;  it  throws  light  on  the  con 
ditions  upon  which  health  rests ;  but  no 
physician  studies  disease  to  discover  the 
normal  action  of  the  organs.  And  yet 
this  is  precisely  what  we  have  been  doing 
during  the  last  two  centuries ;  for  we 
have  accepted  in  very  large  measure  the 
conclusions  of  diseased  natures  regarding 
the  significance,  the  character,  and  the 
value  of  life.  We  have  suffered  men  of 
diseased  minds  to  be  our  teachers,  and, 
instead  of  looking  up  into  the  clear  skies, 
or  seeking  the  altitudes  of  the  hills,  or 
finding  fellowship  with  strong,  natural 
men  in  the  normal  vocations,  we  have 
waited  in  hospitals,  and  listened  eagerly 
to  the  testimony  of  sick  men  touching 
matters  about  which  they  were  incom- 
179 


My  Study  Fire 

petent  to  speak.  We  have  suffered  our 
selves  to  become  the  victims  of  other 
men's  morbid  tendencies  and  distorted 
vision. 

The  men  and  women  whose  judgment 
of  the  nature  and  value  of  life  has  any 
authority  are  few ;  for  the  phenomena  of 
life  are  manifold,  and  most  men  and 
women  have  neither  the  mental  grasp, 
nor  the  range  of  knowledge,  nor  the 
breadth  of  experience  requisite  for  a 
mastery  of  these  phenomena.  Other 
men  and  women  are  disqualified  to  pass 
judgment  upon  life  because  they  are  too 
constantly  subject  to  moods  to  see  clearly 
and  to  report  accurately  what  they  see ; 
and  a  deep  dispassionateness  lies  at  the 
foundation  of  all  adequate  judgment  af 
life.  For  obvious  reasons,  the  testi 
mony  of  the  diseased  mind  is  untrust 
worthy;  it  is  often  deeply  interesting, 
but  it  has  no  authority.  The  "  Journal  " 
of  Marie  Bashkirtseff  has  a  peculiar  in 
terest,  a  kind  of  uncanny  fascination,  be 
cause  it  is  the  confession  of  a  human  soul, 
180 


Sanity  and  Art 

and  everything  that  reveals  the  human 
soul  in   any  phase   of  experience  is  in 
teresting  ;  but  as  a  criticism  of  life  the 
"  Journal "  does  not  count.     The  novels 
of  Guy    de    Maupassant    have   a    great 
charm;    they    are    full    of  a   very    high 
order   of  observation ;  they   are    skilful 
works   of  art;  but  they  are   misleading 
interpretations  of  life  because  they  were 
the  work  of  a  man  of  diseased  nature,  — 
a  man  of  distorted    vision.     Beauty  of 
form  does  not  always  imply  veracity  of 
idea ;  and  while  beauty  has  its  own  claim 
upon  us,  the  ideas  which  it  clothes  have 
no  claim   upon  us  unless    they  are    the 
product  of  clear  vision  and  sound  judg 
ment.     It  is  one  of  the  tragic  facts  of  life 
that  a  thing  may  be  beautiful  and  at  the 
same  time  poisonous ;    but   we    do   not 
take  the  poison  because  it  comes   in  a 
beautiful   form.     We   are  too  much  the 
prey  of  invalidism ;   we  give   too   much 
credence  to  hospital  reports  of  life.     We 
need  more  Homers  and  Scotts,  and  fewer 
Rousseaus  and  Bashkirtseffs.     We  need 
181 


My  Study  Fire 

to  rid  ourselves  of  the  delusion  that  there 
is  any  distinction  about  disease,  any  rare 
and  precious  quality  in  morbid  tastes, 
temperamental  depression,  and  pessi 
mism.  The  large,  virile,  healthful  na 
tures,  who  see  things  as  they  are,  and  rise 
above  the  mists  and  fogs  of  mood,  are 
the  only  witnesses  whose  testimony 
about  life  is  worth  taking,  for  they  are 
the  only  witnesses  who  know  what  life 
is. 


182 


Chapter  XXII 

Manner  and  Man 

RUSKIN'S  declaration  that  when  we 
stand  before  a  great  work  of  art 
we  are  conscious  that  we  are  in  the  pres 
ence,  not  of  a  great  effort  but  of  a  great 
power,  touches    the   very    heart   of  the 
artist's  secret.     For  there  is  nothing  so 
clear  to  the  student  of  art  in  all  its  forms 
as  the  fact  that  its  mysterious  charm  re 
sides,  not  in  any  specific  skill  or  gift,  but 
in  its  quality,  that  subtle  effluence  of  its 
inward  nature.    The  loveliness  of  nature 
is  sometimes  so  transcendent  that  the  de 
light  it  conveys  is  akin  to  pain;  it  brings 
us  so  near  the    absolute  beauty  that  a 
keen  sense  of  separation  and  imperfection 
besets  us.     The  still,  lustrous  evenings 
on  the   Mediterranean  sometimes  bring 
with  them  an  almost  overwhelming  lone 
liness  ;  they  fill  the  imagination  with  the 
183 


My  Study  Fire 

vision  of  a  beauty  not  yet  held  in  sure 
possession.  About  every  work  of  art 
there  is  something  baffling ;  we  do  not 
quite  master  it ;  we  are  not  able  to  go 
with  free  foot  where  it  leads.  Nor  are 
we  able  to  explain  the  processes  by  which 
it  receives  and  conveys  its  charm.  I  fit 
were  merely  a  great  effort,  we  could  dis 
cover  its  secret;  but  it  is  not  a  great 
effort,  it  is  a  great  power. 

Nothing  that  flows  from  a  great  work 
is  so  significant  or  so  impressive  as  this 
impression  of  power,  —  of  a  great  inward 
wealth  in  the  nature  of  the  artist  which  is 
inexhaustible.  A  hint  of  toil  dispels 
the  magic  of  a  picture  as  certainly  as  the 
smell  of  the  midnight  lamp  robs  the 
written  word  of  its  charm,  or  the  percep 
tion  of  calculated  effects  breaks  the  spell 
of  oratory.  The  artist  does  not  become 
an  artist  until  craftsmanship  has  become 
so  much  a  part  of  himself  that  it  has 
ceased  to  have  any  abstract  being  to  his 
thought;  it  has  simply  become  his  way 
of  doing  things,  his  manner  of  expression. 
184 


Manner  and  Man 

There  is  nothing  more  significant  of  the 
reality  and  the  finality  of  art  than  the 
searching  tests  which  confront  the  man 
who  endeavours  to  master  it  —  tests 
which  protect  it  from  the  touch  of  all 
save  the  greatest,  and  preserve  it  invio 
late  from  the  contamination  of  low  aims 
and  vulgar  tastes.  Nothing  is  so  abso 
lutely  secure  as  art ;  its  integrity  is  invio 
late  because,  by  the  law  of  its  nature,  it 
cannot  be  created  save  by  those  who 
comprehend  and  reverence  it.  It  is  as 
impossible  to  make  art  common  or  vul 
gar  as  to  stain  the  heavens  or  rob  the 
Jungfrau  of  its  soft  and  winning  majesty. 
It  is  easy  to  call  commonplace  or  ignoble 
productions  works  of  art,  to  exploit  them 
and  hold  them  before  the  world  as  types 
and  standards  of  beauty ;  but  popular 
ignorance  is  powerless  to  convey  to  a 
book  or  a  picture  that  which  it  does  not 
possess  in  itself.  There  is  a  brief  confu 
sion  of  ideas,  a  short-lived  popularity, 
and  then  comes  that  final  oblivion  which 
awaits  the  common  and  the  inferior  mas- 

185 


My  Study  Fire 

querading  in  the  guise  of  art.  "  The 
Heavenly  Twins"  and  the  "Yellow 
Aster"  provoke  wide  comment,  and 
alarm  the  timid  who  love  real  books  and 
dread  any  cheapening  of  the  noble  art 
of  literature ;  but  there  is  no  cause  for 
alarm :  these  books  of  the  moment,  and 
all  books  of  their  kind,  are  separated 
from  literature  as  obviously  and  as  finally 
as  the  wax  imitation  from  the  flower  that 
blooms,  dewy,  fragrant,  and  magically 
fresh,  on  the  edges  of  the  wood.  What 
is  called  popular  taste  does  not  decide 
the  question  of  the  presence  or  absence 
of  artistic  quality  ;  a  work  of  art  justifies 
itself;  for  its  appeal  is  not  to  the  taste 
of  the  moment,  but  to  that  instinct  for 
beauty  in  the  soul  which  sooner  or  later 
recognises  the  conformity  of  the  human 
product  to  the  divine  reality.  It  is  to 
the  eternal  element  in  men  that  the  great 
work  speaks,  and  its  place  is  determined, 
not  by  capricious  and  changing  tastes, 
but  by  its  fidelity  to  that  absolute  beauty 
of  which  every  touch  of  art  is  the  revela- 
1 86 


Manner  and  Man 

tion.  The  ignorance  of  a  generation 
may  pass  by  the  masterful  works  of  Rem 
brandt,  but  the  question  of  the  greatness 
and  authority  of  "  The  Night- Watch  " 
and  "The  Gilder"  was  never  for  a 
moment  in  the  hands  of  the  artist's  con 
temporaries  or  successors;  it  was  in  Rem 
brandt's  hands  alone.  Taste  changes, 
but  beauty  is  absolute  and  eternal. 

The  law  which  bases  the  power  to  pro 
duce  art,  not  upon  external  skill,  but 
upon  the  nature  of  the  artist,  not  only 
protects  it  forever  from  pretenders  and 
tricksters,  but  allies  it  to  what  is  deep 
est  and  greatest  in  the  life  of  the  world. 
The  magic  of  Shakespeare's  style  is  not 
more  wonderful  than  the  veracity  of  his 
thought.  The  old  proverb,  "  Manners 
maketh  man,"  was  never  more  clearly 
verified  than  in  the  case  of  this  noble 
artist,  whose  style  is  at  once  so  unmistak 
able  and  so  literally  inimitable.  Those 
who  have  not  learned  the  interior  relation 
of  style  to  soul,  and  who  do  not  clearly 
see  that  style  is  not  an  element  in  litera- 
187 


My  Study  Fire 

ture,  but  literature  itself,  will  do  well  to 
meditate  on  cc  The  Tempest,"  or  even  on 
"  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona."  For 
in  Shakespeare  at  his  best  we  have  that 
identification  of  the  artist  with  life,  that 
absorption  of  knowledge  into  personality, 
that  realisation  of  the  eternal  unity  be 
tween  truth  of  idea  and  beauty  of  form, 
which  mark  the  perfection  of  art.  In 
the  finest  Shakespearean  dramas  we  are 
never  conscious  of  effort ;  we  are  always 
conscious  of  power.  The  knowledge,  the 
manner,  and  the  man  are  one ;  there  is 
perfect  assimilation  of  the  outward  world 
by  the  inward  spirit ;  idea  and  expression 
are  so  harmonious  that  the  form  is  but 
the  flowering  of  the  soul.  When  obser 
vation  has  passed  into  meditation,  and 
meditation  has  transformed  knowledge 
into  truth,  and  the  brooding  imagination 
has  incorporated  truth  into  the  nature  of 
the  artist,  then  comes  the  creative  mo 
ment,  and  the  outward  form  grows  not 
only  out  of  the  heart  of  the  thought,  but 
out  of  the  soul  of  the  man.  Shakespeare 
188 


Manner  and  Man 

is  full  of  these  magical  transformations 
by  which  knowledge  becomes  power,  and 
power  passes  on  into  beauty;  and  in 
these  transformations  the  mystery  and 
the  processes  of  art  are  hidden  but  not 
wholly  concealed. 


189 


Chapter  XXIII 

The  Outing  of  the  Soul 

THE  gospel  of  personal  righteous 
ness  finds  many  voices ;  the  gos 
pel  of  a  full  and  rich  life,  fed  from  all 
the  divine  sources  of  truth,  beauty, 
and  power,  still  needs  advocates.  The 
old  atheism  which  shut  God  out  of  a 
large  part  of  his  world  still  lingers  like 
those  drifts  of  snow  that,  in  secluded 
places,  elude  the  genial  sun.  Men  are 
as  slow  to  learn  the  divinity  of  nature  as 
they  have  been  to  learn  the  divinity  of 
humanity;  as  slow  to  accept  the  revela 
tion  of  nature  as  to  accept  that  of  the 
human  soul.  It  is  difficult  to  realise 
how  completely  nature  was  lost  to  men 
during  the  Middle  Ages ;  how  compar 
atively  untouched  human  life  was  by 
association  with  the  countless  aspects  of 
sea  and  sky;  how  generally  the  union 
190 


The  Outing  of  the  Soul 

between  men  and  the  sublime  house  in 
which  they  lived  was  broken.  For  sev 
eral  centuries  the  great  mass  of  men  and 
women  were  so  estranged  from  nature 
that  they  forgot  their  kinship.  It  is  true 
that  there  were  in  every  generation  men 
and  women  to  whom  the  beauty  of  the 
world  did  not  appeal  in  vain,  but  it  was 
a  beauty  obscured  by  mists  of  supersti 
tion,  and  the  perception  of  which  was 
painfully  limited  by  lack  of  the  deeper 
insight  and  the  larger  vision.  Woods, 
flowers,  and  streams,  so  close  at  hand,  so 
intimately  associated  with  the  richest  ex 
periences,  could  not  wholly  fail  of  that 
charm  which  they  possess  to-day;  but 
while  these  lovely  details  were  seen,  the 
picture  as  a  whole  was  invisible.  The 
popular  ballads  and  epics  are  not  lack 
ing  in  pretty  bits  of  description  and  sen 
timent,  but  nature  is  wholly  subordinate ; 
the  sublime  background  against  which  all 
modern  life  is  set  is  invisible. 

It  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  time  when 
men  had  no  eye  for  the  landscape,  and 
191 


My  Study  Fire 

yet  it  is  one  of  the  most  notable  facts 
about  Petrarch  that  he  was  the  first  man 
of  his  period  to  show  any  interest  in  that 
great   vision   which    a    lofty    mountain 
opens,  and  which  has  for  the  men  of  to 
day  a  delight  so  poignant  as  to  be  almost 
painful.     Dante    had  struck  some  deep 
notes  which  showed  clearly  enough  that 
he  was  alive  to  the  mystery  and  marvel 
of  the  physical  world,  but  Petrarch  was 
the  earliest  of  those  who  have  seen  clearly 
the  range  and  significance  of  nature  as  it 
stands  related  to  the  life  of  men.     He 
celebrated   the    charms    of  Vaucluse    in 
letters  which  might    have   been  written 
by    Maurice  de  Guerin,    so    modern    is 
their    tone,    so     contemporaneous     their 
note  of  intimate  companionship.     "  This 
lovely   region,"   he  writes,    "is    as    well 
adapted    as    possible  to  my  studies  and 
labours,  so  long  as  iron  necessity  com 
pels  me  to  live  outside  of  Italy.     Morn 
ing  and  evening  the  hills  throw  welcome 
shadows ;  in  the  valleys  are  sun-warmed 
gaps,  while  far  and  wide  stretches  a  lovely 
192 


The  Outing  of  the  Soul 

landscape,  in  which  the  tracks  of  animals 
are  seen  oftener  than  those  of  men. 
Deep  and  undisturbed  silence  reigns 
everywhere,  only  broken  now  and  then 
by  the  murmur  of  falling  waters,  the 
lowing  of  cattle,  and  the  songs  of  birds." 
But  it  was  the  ascent  of  Mont  Ventoux, 
accompanied  by  his  younger  brother  and 
two  countrymen,  which  stamps  Petrarch 
as  one  of  the  great  discoverers  of  the 
natural  world.  There  are  few  more  sig 
nificant  or  fascinating  moments  in  the 
history  of  human  development  than  that 
which  gave  Petrarch  his  first  glimpse  of 
the  beautiful  landscape  about  Avignon, 
from  the  crest  of  the  hill ;  it  marked  the 
beginning  of  a  new  era  in  the  history  of 
the  human  soul.  That  the  majesty  of 
the  outlook  so  overwhelmed  Petrarch 
that  it  drove  him  back  upon  himself, 
brought  all  his  sins  to  mind,  and  sent 
him  to  the  "  Confessions  of  St.  Augus 
tine,"  showed  that  he  was  still  the  child 
of  his  age;  but  the  longing  which  led 
him  to  make  the  ascent,  despite  the 
'3  193 


My  Study  Fire 

warning  of  the  old  herdsmen  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain,  showed  that  he  was  also 
a  man  of  the  new  time,  and  that  he  had 
unconsciously  assumed  the  attitude  of 
the  modern  mind  towards  nature. 

The  redemption  of  nature  from  the 
shadow  of  sin  which,  to  the  mediaeval 
mind,  rested  upon  and  darkened  it,  has 
been  very  slowly  accomplished ;  but  the 
poets,  the  naturalists,  and  the  scientists 
have  taught  us  much,  and  our  hearts 
have  taught  us  more.  Nature  has  be 
come  not  only  an  inexhaustible  delight, 
a  constant  and  fascinating  friend,  but  the 
most  vital  and  intimate  of  teachers ;  in 
fact,  it  is  from  the  study  of  nature,  in  one 
form  or  another,  that  much  of  the  ad 
vance  in  educational  efficiency  has  come ; 
not  the  improvements  in  method,  but 
the  freshening  and  deepening  of  the  edu 
cational  aim  and  spirit.  Nature,  through 
the  discoveries  of  science,  has  restored 
balance  to  the  mind,  and  sanity  to  the 
spirit  of  men  by  correcting  the  false  per 
spective  of  abstract  thinking,  by  flooding 
194 


The  Outing  of  the  Soul 

the  deepest  questions  with  new  light,  by 
bringing  into  activity  a  set  of  faculties 
almost  disused,  and  by  adding  immeasur 
ably  to  the  resources  of  the  human  spirit. 
In  the  Middle  Ages  attention  was  con 
centrated  upon  the  soul,  and  men  learned 
much    from    their   eager  and  passionate 
self-questioning;   but  it  was   a   very  in 
adequate  and  distorted  view  of  life  which 
they  reached,  because  one  of  the  great 
sources  of  revelation  was  left  untouched. 
In  modern  times  the  world  of  nature  has 
been    searched     with     tireless     patience, 
great  truths   relating  to  man's  place  in 
the  sublime  movement  of  the  universe 
have  come  to  light,    and    the    distorted 
vision  of  the  inward  world  has  been  cor 
rected  by  the  clear  vision  of  the  outward 
world.     The  study  of  nature  has  yielded 
a  new  conception  of  the  nature  of   the 
divine  will  expressed  through  law,  of  the 
divine  design    interpreted   by  the  order 
and  progress  of  the  phenomena  of  the 
physical    universe,    of    the     marvellous 
beauty  of  the  divine  mind  which  Ten- 


My  Study  Fire 

nyson  was  thinking  of  when,  looking 
long  and  steadfastly  into  the  depths  of  a 
slow-moving  stream,  he  cried  out  in  awe 
and  wonder,  "  What  an  imagination  God 
has ! " 

Men  are  saner,  healthier,  wiser,  since 
they  began  to  find  God  in  nature  and  to 
receive  the  facts  of  nature  as  a  divine 
revelation.  The  soul  has  looked  away 
from  herself  and  out  into  the  marvellous 
universe,  and  learned  from  a  new  teacher 
the  wonder,  the  beauty,  and  the  greatness 
of  her  life. 


196 


Chapter  XXIV 

The  Power  Which  Liberates 

IN  Dr.  Parsons'  fine  lines  "  On  a  Bust 
of  Dante"  there  is  a  verse  which 
suggests  even  more  than  it  conveys: 

Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 

No  dream  his  life  was  —  but  a  fight ! 
Could  any  Beatrice  see 

A  lover  in  that  anchorite  ? 
To  that  cold  Ghibelline's  gloomy  sight 

Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 
Of  Beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame  ? 

The  contrast  between  the  outward  and 
the  inward  life  —  the  one  all  shadow 
and  hardship,  the  other  all  splendour 
and  affluence  —  has  never  been  more 
impressively  disclosed  than  in  the  story 
of  the  Florentine  poet  whose  brief  and 
bitter  years  have  in  their  train  a  fame 
of  universal  range  and  almost  piercing 
197 


My  Study  Fire 

lustre.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  the 
"  Divine  Comedy  "  would  have  been  so 
widely  treasured  if  the  story  of  the  singer 
had  been  less  pathetic  and  significant. 
If  its  authorship  were  unknown,  it  would 
still  remain  one  of  the  incomparable 
achievements  of  art ;  but  the  personal 
anguish  behind  it  lends  it  that  spell 
which  issues  out  of  experience,  and  to 
which  no  human  heart  can  be  wholly 
indifferent.  There  are  many  to  whom 
the  poem  would  be  incomprehensible ; 
there  are  few  to  whom  the  poet  would 
appeal  in  vain.  If  his  thought  often 
took  wing  beyond  the  range  of  the 
common  thought,  his  experience  shared 
with  all  humanity  that  visitation  of  sorrow 
from  which  none  wholly  escape.  The 
very  completeness  of  the  shipwreck  of 
his  personal  fortunes  makes  the  greatness 
of  his  achievement  the  more  impressive; 
and  the  hardness  of  his  lot  lends  a  new 
splendour  to  his  imagination. 

For  Dante,  the  imagination  meant  not 
only  the  power  of  creating  on  a  great 
198 


The  Power  Which  Liberates 

scale,  but  also  liberation  from  the  iron 
bars  of  circumstance  which  imprisoned 
him.  He  was  banished  from  Florence, 
but  no  decree  could  shut  his  thought 
out  from  the  streets  and  squares  that 
were  so  dear  to  him.  It  is  true  that  he 
has  spoken  in  memorable  words  of  the 
sadness  of  revisiting  in  dreams  alone  the 
places  one  loves ;  but  there  was,  never 
theless,  in  that  power  of  passing  at  will 
from  Verona  to  Florence,  a  resource  of 
incalculable  value.  The  body  might  be 
bound  ;  the  man  was  free.  This  faculty, 
which  sets  us  free  from  so  many  of  our 
limitations  and  gives  us  citizenship  in  all 
ages  and  countries,  is  not  only  the  one 
creative  power  in  us,  but  is  also  our 
greatest  resource.  No  gift  is  so  rare 
and  none  so  priceless  as  a  powerful  and 
productive  imagination.  That  it  is  rare, 
the  mass  of  contemporary  verse-writing 
demonstrates  with  almost  pathetic  con- 
clusiveness ;  that  it  is  above  price,  the 
great  works  of  art  abundantly  prove. 
But  from  the  purely  personal  point  of 
199 


My  Study  Fire 

view  —  the  interest,  the  variety,  and  the 
power  of  the  individual  life  —  no  gift  is 
so  much  to  be  prized.  To  the  possessor 
of  this  magical  faculty  the  outward  hap 
penings  are,  at  the  worst,  of  secondary 
importance.  Homer  will  not  find  blind 
ness  too  great  a  trial,  if  Troy  still  stands 
in  his  vision  with  the  hosts  contending 
about  it,  and  the  white-armed  Nausicaa 
still  greets  the  much-travelled  Ulysses 
on  the  beach ;  and  Shakespeare  could 
have  borne  heavier  sorrows  than  most 
men  have  known,  the  Forest  of  Arden, 
Prosperous  Island,  and  the  enchanted 
woodland  of  the  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  being  open  to  him.  Spenser 
could  find  refuge  from  the  tumult  of 
Ireland  in  the  dominion  of  the  Faery 
Queen  ;  Milton,  with  sealed  eyes,  solitary 
in  an  age  apostate  to  his  faith  and  hope, 
saw  Paradise  with  undimmed  vision ; 
and  Browning,  in  the  uproar,  contention, 
and  uncertainty  of  this  turbulent  century, 
heard  Pippa,  unconsciously  touching  the 
tragedy  of  life  at  so  many  points,  still 


200 


The  Power  Which  Liberates 

serenely  singing  her  song   of  faith   and 

peace. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  any  of  us 
understand  what  the  imagination  means 
to  us  simply  as  the  liberating  force  which 
throws  the  doors  and  windows  open. 
When  imagination  withers  and  art  dies, 
discontent,  misery,  and  revolutions  are 
in  order.  It  is  the  outlook  through  the 
windows,  the  breath  of  air  through  the 
open  door,  that  keeps  men  content  in 
their  workshops;  where  the  outlook  is 
shut  off  and  the  air  no  longer  comes 
fresh  and  vital  into  the  close  room  the 
workers  grow  reckless  and  hopeless.  For 
without  the  imagination  —  the  power  to 
look  through  and  beyond  our  conditions 

life   would    be   intolerable.     Better  a 

great  activity  of  the  imagination  and 
hard  conditions  than  ease  of  condition 
and  poverty  of  imagination ;  for  men  are 
never  so  dangerous  as  when  their  bodies 
are  fed  and  their  souls  starved.  A  per 
fectly  comfortable  society  deprived  of 
the  resources  of  the  imagination,  would 


201 


My  Study  Fire 

invite  and  foster  the  most  desperate 
anarchism ;  for  men  live  by  ideas,  not 
by  things.  A  man  who  sees  a  great  pur 
pose  shining  before  him  can  endure  all 
hardness  for  the  glory  that  is  to  come ; 
the  man  who  no  longer  has  desires, 
because  all  his  wants  are  met,  suffers  a 
swift  deterioration  of  nature,  and  is  at 
last  the  victim  of  his  own  prosperity. 
The  Roman  noble,  in  Mr.  Arnold's 
striking  poem,  finds  life  unbearable  be 
cause  his  passions  are  sated,  his  appe 
tites  fed,  and  his  imagination  dead.  He 
is  suffocated  by  his  own  luxury.  Dante, 
on  the  other  hand,  feels  keenly  his  con 
dition,  but  lives  more  deeply  and  glori 
ously  than  any  man  of  his  time  because, 
in  spite  of  the  hardness  of  his  lot,  his 
imagination  travels  through  all  worlds, 
and  beyond  the  barren  hour  discerns  the 
splendours  of  Paradise.  The  prophets, 
teachers,  and  poets,  who  alone  have 
made  life  bearable,  have  been  the  chil 
dren  of  the  imagination,  and  have  had 
the  supreme  consolation  of  looking 


202 


The  Power  Which  Liberates 

through  the  limitations  into  which  every 
man  is  born  into  the  great  heavens  flam 
ing  with   other  worlds  than  ours.     For 
it  is  the  imagination  which  realises  the 
soul   in   things   material   and  reads    this 
universe  of  matter  as  a  symbol,  and  so 
liberates   us  from   the  oppression  which 
comes  from  mere  magnitude  and  mass ; 
which   discerns  the  inner  meaning  of  the 
family,  the  Church,  and  the  State,  and, 
in  spite  of  all  frailties  and  imperfections, 
makes  their  divine  origin  credible  ;  which 
discovers  the  end  of  labour  in  power,  of 
self-denial  in   freedom,   of  hardness  and 
suffering  in  the   perfecting   of  the  soul. 
"  I  am  never  confused,"  said  Emerson, 
"if  I  see  far  enough;"   and  the  imagi 
nation  is  the  faculty  which  sees.     Of  the 
several  faculties  by  the  exercise  of  which 
men  live,  it  is  most  necessary,  practical, 
and  vital ;  and  yet  so  little  is  it  under 
stood  that  it  is  constantly  spoken  of  as 
something  very  beautiful  in  its  activity, 
but  the  especial  property  of  artists,  poets, 

and  dreamers ! 

203 


Chapter  XXV 

The  Unconscious  Artist 

GOETHE  used  to  smile  when  he 
was  asked  for  an  explanation  of 
certain  oracular  or  enigmatical  sayings  in 
the  second  part  of  "  Faust."  One  of 
the  minor  pleasures  of  his  old  age  was 
the  consciousness  that  a  great  many  dis 
ciples  believed  in  their  hearts  that  he  had 
the  key  to  the  mysteries  in  his  keeping, 
and  that,  if  he  chose,  he  could  answer  all 
the  questions  which  had  tormented  the 
race  from  the  beginning.  There  was  a 
mysterious  reticence,  an  Olympian  re 
serve,  about  the  old  poet  which  went  far 
to  confirm  this  faith,  and  it  must  be  said 
that  Goethe  did  not  go  out  of  his  way  to 
dispel  the  illusion.  No  man  knew  better 
than  he  the  limitations  of  knowledge;  he 
was  too  great  and  too  honest  to  play  with 
his  public ;  but  when  the  great  man  has 
204 


The  Unconscious  Artist 

become  an  absolute  sovereign,  and  has 
grown  gray  upon  the  solitary  throne,  and 
when,  moreover,  he  has  the  resource  of 
humour  for  his  waning  days,  he  may  be 
pardoned  for  suffering  men  to  entertain 
a  belief  in  an  infallibility  of  the  reality 
of  which  he  is  sometimes  half  persuaded 
himself.     "  Master,"  said    an  awestruck 
young  man  in  Victor  Hugo's  salon  one 
evening  not  long  before  the  poet's  death, 
"  this  age  has  known  many  great  spirits, 
but  thou  art  the  greatest  of  them  all." 
"  Yes,"  answered  the  old  poet,  without 
even  a  ghost  of  a  smile,  "  and  the  age  is 
passing,  and  I,  too,  am  nearing  the  end!" 
Goethe  was  free  from  the  colossal  egotism 
of  Hugo,  and,  even  if  he  had  possessed 
it,  his  humour  would  have  protected  him 
from  any  expression  of  it ;   but  Goethe 
was    not    above    the    pleasure    of  being 
thought  great,  nor  could  he  deny  him 
self  the  satisfaction  of  being  regarded  as 
an  oracle.     Probably  no  man  could  resist 
an  appeal  to  self-love  so  unsolicited  and 

so  beguiling. 

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My  Study  Fire 

There  is  no  reason  to  doubt,  however, 
that  Goethe  sometimes  took  refuge  in 
silence  because  he  could  not  answer  the 
questions  that  were  propounded  to  him 
about  his  own  work.  When  such  ques 
tions  were  asked  he  always  assumed  an 
oracular  manner  which  deepened  the  im 
pression  that,  if  he  chose,  he  might  dis 
close  very  deep  things,  and  withdraw  the 
veil  from  very  great  mysteries.  This 
evasion  must  not  be  set  down  to  his  dis 
credit,  however ;  it  was  the  refuge  of  a 
man  who  knew  too  much  and  had  done 
too  many  great  things  to  dread  that  con 
fession  of  ignorance  from  which  a  man 
of  lesser  range  and  mind  might  have 
shrunk.  He  had  a  touch  of  vanity  like 
his  fellows,  however,  and  his  turn  for 
proverbial  and  epigrammatic  speech  made 
the  oracular  tone  very  attractive  to  him. 
The  fundamental  fact  about  the  matter 
is,  however,  that  there  were  many  things 
in  Goethe's  work  of  which  he  could  not 
have  given  a  clear  explanation,  because, 
like  every  other  great  mind,  he  builded 
206 


The  Unconscious  Artist 

better  than  he  knew.  The  critical  habit 
was  strong  with  him,  and  very  few  men 
have  thought  more  exhaustively  and 
thoroughly  about  the  principles  and 
processes  of  art  than  he  ;  nevertheless,  it 
remains  true  that  the  deepest  and  richest 
parts  of  his  work  were  the  creation  of  the 
unconscious  rather  than  the  conscious 
Goethe. 

It  was  one  of  Goethe's  most  profound 
and  fruitful  ideas  that  what  a  man  would 
do  greatly  he  must  do  with  his  whole 
nature.  He  was  the  first  great  artist  to 
formulate  clearly  the  fundamental  law 
that  the  artist  is  conditioned  by  his  own 
nature,  that  art  rests  upon  life,  and  that 
there  is,  therefore,  in  a  true  work  of  art 
an  expression  of  a  man's  complete  nature, 
—  his  body,  his  mind,  and  his  heart. 
For  the  artist  is  not  a  mechanic  who 
skilfully  devises  processes  to  secure  a 
certain  definite  end ;  he  is  not  a  trained 
mind  and  a  trained  hand  working  by 
rule  and  system ;  he  is  a  spontaneous 
and  original  force  in  the  world,  as  mys- 
207 


My  Study  Fire 

terious  to  himself  as  to  others, —  full  of 
unknown  possibilities ;  fed,  sleeping  and 
waking,  by  a  thousand  invisible  streams 
of  impulse  and  power;  expanded  uncon 
sciously  to  himself  by  the  very  process 
of  living ;  developed  as  much  by  feeling 
as  by  thought;  and  slowly  gathering  to 
himself  a  great  inward  wealth  of  knowl 
edge,  vitality,  beauty,  and  power.  When 
at  last  such  a  nature  produces,  it  does 
not  work  mechanically ;  it  creates  by 
giving  itself;  by  expressing  what  is 
deepest  and  truest  in  itself  through  the 
forms  of  art.  In  every  product  of  me 
chanical  skill,  however  perfect,  the  pro 
cess  can  be  discovered;  but  no  analysis 
ever  yet  surprised  nature  in  the  mak 
ing  of  a  flower.  The  living  thing  that 
reaches  its  perfection  by  growth,  being,  so 
to  speak,  all  of  a  piece,  and  attaining  its 
development  by  the  unfolding  of  itself, 
eludes  the  keenest  analysis  and  remains 
a  mystery  in  spite  of  the  almost  infinite 
patience  of  science.  In  like  manner,  a 
work  of  art,  being  a  growth  and  not  a 
208 


The  Unconscious  Artist 

mechanical  product,  remains  mysterious 
and  inexplicable  even  to  its  creator. 
There  are  certain  elements  in  it  which  he 
consciously  contributes ;  there  are  other 
elements  which  are  there  without  his 
planning  or  knowledge.  A  work  of  art 
is  the  joint  product  of  the  conscious  and 
the  unconscious  man,  and  there  is,  con 
sequently,  much  in  every  such  work 
which  transcends,  not  the  nature,  but  the 
mind,  of  the  artist.  For  every  great  man 
builds  better  than  he  knows. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  believe,  therefore, 
that  there  were  things  in  "  Faust "  which 
Goethe  could  not  completely  explain. 
The  poem  was,  in  fact,  of  wider  range 
than  he  knew.  Its  significance  as  an  in 
terpretation  or  representation  of  life  was 
not  undervalued  by  him,  but  there  are 
many  truths  in  it  of  which  he  did  not 
perceive  the  full  import,  and  later  stu 
dents  find  in  it  much  which  is  unques 
tionably  present  in  it,  but  of  which 
Goethe  was  unconscious.  The  conscious 
Goethe,  planning,  brooding,  shaping,  did 
14  209 


My  Study  Fire 

much  ;  but  the  unconscious  Goethe,  liv 
ing,  feeling,  suffering,  acting,  did  more. 
And  this  is  true  not  only  of  "  Faust," 
but  of  the  Book  of  Job,  of  the  "  Iliad," 
of  the  "Divine  Comedy,"  and  of 
"Lear"  and  "The  Tempest."  It  is 
certainly  not  true  that  the  great  artist  is 
the  tool  of  an  impulse,  an  irresponsible 
inspiration,  and  puts  forth  the  sublimest 
conceptions  without  any  idea  of  their 
depth  and  range.  Those  who  believe 
that  the  author  of  "  Hamlet"  and  "  The 
Tempest "  had  a  magical  gift  of  dramatic 
expression,  but  no  comprehension  of 
philosophic  relations  and  values,  cannot 
have  read  "  Troilus  and  Cressida  "  with 
any  care.  Shakespeare  knew  what  he 
was  doing  when  he  wrote  "  Lear,"  as  did 
Goethe  when  he  wrote  "  Faust,"  and 
Tennyson  when  he  wrote  "  In  Memo- 
riam ;  "  in  each  case,  however,  there  was 
inwrought  into  the  very  nature  of  the 
poet  a  prophetic  element  which  gave  his 
thought  a  range  beyond  that  of  his  ex 
perience,  and  his  vision  a  clearness  and 


210 


The  Unconscious  Artist 

scope  beyond  those  of  his  thought.  It 
is  the  peculiar  gift  of  the  man  of  genius 
that  when  he  portrays  the  individual  he 
brings  the  type  before  us,  when  he  gives 
the  fact  he  suggests  the  truth  which  in 
terprets  it,  when  he  reports  the  phe 
nomena  he  reveals  the  law  behind  it ;  and 
so  he  constantly,  and  for  the  most  part 
unconsciously,  lets  us  into  the  universal 
by  setting  before  us  the  particular. 


211 


Chapter  XXVI 

The  Law  of  Obedience 

IN  reading  Marlowe  one  is  brought 
face  to  face,  not  only  with  tragic  sit 
uations,  but  with  the  elemental  tragedy, 
—  the  tragedy  which  has  its  rise  in  the 
conflict  between  the  infinite  desires  of 
the  soul  and  rigid  restrictions  of  its  ac 
tivity.  The  master  of  "  the  mighty 
line "  never  learned  that  lesson  of  self- 
mastery  which  Shakespeare  studied  so 
faithfully ;  he  was  always  wasting  his 
immense  force  on  the  impossible,  and 
matching  his  powerful  genius  against 
those  immutable  conditions  imposed 
upon  men,  not  to  dwarf  but  to  develop 
them.  In  art  no  less  than  in  morals 
supreme  achievement  is  conditioned  not 
only  upon  a  free  use  of  one's  powers, 
but  upon  a  clear  recognition  of  their 
limits ;  the  great  artist  never  attempts 

212 


The  Law  of  Obedience 

the  impossible.  In  "  Tamburlaine " 
Marlowe  strove  not  only  to  portray  a 
personality  striving  to  transcend  human 
limitations,  but  to  pass  beyond  them 
himself  by  the  sheer  force  of  his  genius ; 
but  neither  the  conqueror  nor  the  dram 
atist  evaded  the  play  of  that  law  which 
binds  ultimate  freedom  to  immediate 
obedience.  Shakespeare,  on  the  other 
hand,  achieved  the  most  impressive  suc 
cess  in  modern  literature  when  he  dealt 
with  the  same  problem  in  "  Lear,"  —  a 
success  based  on  a  clear  perception  of 
the  exact  limits  within  which  the  human 
personality  may  express  itself. 

We  touch  at  this  point  not  only  the 
essence  of  the  deepest  tragedy,  but  the 
secret  of  the  highest  art ;  for  the  ele 
mental  tragedy  is  the  struggle  between 
the  will  and  the  conditions  imposed  upon 
its  expression,  and  the  secret  of  art  re 
sides,  not  only  in  the  depth  and  vitality 
of  the  artist's  mastery  of  his  materials, 
but  also  in  the  clearness  of  his  percep 
tion  of  the  decisive  line  between  the  pos- 
213 


My  Study  Fire 

sible  and  the  impossible.  The  Classical 
writers,  with  their  delicate  sense  of  pro 
portion.,  harmony,  and  form,  never  at 
tempted  to  pass  beyond  the  limits  of  a 
sound  art ;  they  were  sometimes  formal 
and  cold,  but  they  were  never  tumul 
tuous,  unbalanced,  and  lawless.  In 
Sophocles,  for  instance,  one  never  loses 
consciousness  of  the  presence  of  a  genius 
which,  dealing  with  the  most  perplexing 
and  terrible  questions  of  destiny,  is  never 
tempted  to  pass  the  bounds  of  clear  and 
definite  artistic  expression,  but  sustains 
the  theme  to  the  end  with  a  masterful 
self-restraint  and  majesty  of  repose.  In 
that  noble  balance,  based  on  the  har 
mony,  not  on  the  subjection  of  the  heart 
and  mind  of  the  artist,  one  gets  a  glimpse 
of  one  of  the  great  ends  of  art ;  which  is 
not  to  express  but  to  suggest  that  which 
transcends  human  thought  and  speech. 
For  the  great  play,  statue,  picture,  speech 
are  prophetic,  and  find  their  fulfilment, 
not  in  themselves,  but  in  the  imagination 
which  comes  under  their  spell  ,•  the  more 
214 


The  Law  of  Obedience 

complete  their  beauty,  therefore,  the 
more  powerfully  do  they  affirm  the  ex 
istence  of  a  beauty  beyond  themselves. 
The  definiteness  of  Greek  art  was  not  a 
limitation ;  it  was  a  source  of  transcend 
ent  power.  It  is  true,  it  shut  the  Greek 
artist  out  of  some  great  fields ;  but  he 
was  not  ready  to  enter  them,  and  the 
divine  apparition  of  beauty  always  moved 
with  his  work  and  issued  out  of  it  as  a 
soul  is  revealed  by  a  body  as  beautiful  as 
itself.  The  Venus  of  Milos  is  not  the 
image  of  a  saint,  but  there  is  that  in  the 
mutilated  statue  which  makes  the  divine 
perfection  not  only  credible  but  actual. 

For  there  is,  in  supreme  excellence  of 
any  kind,  an  immense  exhilaration  for 
the  human  spirit,  —  a  power  of  impul 
sion,  which  leads  or  drives  it  out  of  itself 
into  new  spiritual  quests  and  ventures. 
Dante  had  no  thought  of  a  re-awakening 
of  the  mind  of  man ;  he  did  not  discern 
that  thrilling  chapter  of  history  so  soon 
to  be  written;  but  to  that  great  move 
ment  the  "Divine  Comedy"  was  one 


My  Study  Fire 

of  the  chief  contributing  forces.  The 
production  of  such  a  masterpiece  was 
in  itself  a  new  liberation  of  the  human 
spirit,  and  set  the  currents  of  imagination 
and  action  flowing  freely  once  more.  It 
matters  little  whether  a  great  book  has 
definite  teaching  for  men  or  not;  it  is 
always  a  mighty  force  for  liberation. 
Greek  art  had  its  limitations  of  theme 
and  manner,  but  its  perfection  brought 
constantly  before  the  mind  that  ultimate 
perfection,  which  it  evaded  so  far  as  defi 
nite  treatment  was  concerned,  but  the 
existence  of  which  was  implied  in  its 
own  existence,  and  the  fuller  revelation 
of  which  it  was  always  unconsciously 
predicting. 

This  thought  hints  at  the  working  out 
in  art  of  that  deepest  and  most  mysteri 
ous  of  all  the  laws  of  life,  which  declares 
that  he  who  would  save  his  life  must 
lose  it :  that  sublime  contradiction  which 
seems  always  to  be  assailing  man's  hap 
piness  and  is  always  preserving  it.  The 
restraint  of  the  great  Classical  dramatists, 
216 


The  Law  of  Obedience 

which  to  a  man  like  Marlowe  seems  a 
surrender  of  power,  is,  in  reality,  the  dis 
closure  of  a  power  so  great  that  it  makes 
one  forget  the  limitations  of  the  artist  by 
giving  us  the  freedom  of  the  art.  For 
when  a  man  submits  himself  to  the  laws 
of  his  craft  he  ceases  to  be  its  bond 
man  and  becomes  its  master.  Marlowe 
evaded  or  refused  this  submission,  and 
his  work,  while  it  discloses  great  force, 
makes  us  painfully  aware  of  limitations 
and  crudity  ;  Shakespeare,  on  the  other 
hand,  cheerfully  submitted  to  the  laws 
of  his  craft,  and  his  work,  by  reason  of 
its  balance  and  harmony,  conveys  a  sense 
of  limitless  power,  of  boundless  capacity 
for  mastering  the  most  difficult  prob 
lems  of  life  and  art.  Never  was  the  glo 
rious  commonplace  that  a  man  becomes 
free  by  obedience  more  beautifully 
illustrated. 

The  Greek  artist  registered  one  of  the 

most  decisive  advances  in  human  thought 

when  for  the  Oriental  indeterminateness 

he  substituted  his  own  definiteness ;  and 

217 


My  Study  Fire 

the  human  spirit  took  a  great  forward 
step  when  it  discerned  that  by  subjection 
to  the  law  of  its  growth  it  would  ulti 
mately  achieve  that  freedom  which  the 
Oriental  mind  had  attempted  to  grasp  at 
once,  and  which  it  had  failed  to  seize. 
Between  Plato  and  Aristotle  and  the 
Oriental  thinkers  before  them  there  was 
a  great  gulf  fixed  which  remains  to-day 
impassable,  although  many  fragile  and 
fantastic  structures  have  of  late  years 
swung  airily  over  the  abyss.  In  the 
Greek  thought  the  foundations  of  West 
ern  civilisation  are  set,  and  in  that 
thought  rest  also  the  eternal  founda 
tions  of  art.  For  personality,  freedom, 
and  responsibility  were  the  fundamental 
Greek  ideas,  and  they  are  the  ideas 
which  underlie  Western  life  and  art. 
The  Greek  artist  recognised  the  integrity 
of  his  own  nature,  and  discerned  his  con 
sequent  freedom  and  responsibility.  He 
did  not  lose  himself  in  God,  nor  merge 
himself  in  nature;  he  stood  erect;  he 
worshipped,  he  observed,  and  he  created. 


218 


The  Law  of  Obedience 

He  did  not,  through  failure  of  clear 
thought,  attempt  the  impossible,  as  did 
his  fellow  in  the  farther  East;  he  saw 
clearly  the  limitations  of  his  faculty,  and 
he  discerned  that  freedom  and  power  lay 
in  accepting,  not  in  ignoring,  those  limi 
tations.  He  constructed  the  Parthenon 
instead  of  miles  of  rock-hewn  temple; 
and  for  monsters,  and  gigantic,  unreal 
symbols  he  carved  the  Olympian  Zeus 
and  the  inimitable  Venus  of  the  Louvre 
Gallery.  He  peopled  the  world  with 
divinities,  and  in  his  marvellous  illustra 
tion  of  the  fecundity  of  the  human  spirit, 
and  of  its  power,  he  created  an  art  which 
not  only  affirms  the  integrity  of  the  soul, 
but  predicts  its  immortality.  There 
have  been  great  artists  from  that  day  to 
this,  and  art  has  passed  through  many 
phases,  but  the  old  law  finds  constant 
illustration ;  and  between  Tennyson  and 
Swinburne,  as  between  Shakespeare  and 
Marlowe,  one  discerns  the  gain  and  the 
waste  of  power  inherent,  the  first  in  self- 
restraint,  the  second  in  self-assertion. 
219 


Chapter  XXVII 

Struggle  in  Art 

MARLOWE'S  excess  and  lack  of 
restraint  debarred  him  from  the 
highest  achievement  as  an  artist ;  but  his 
vitality  and  force  were  qualities  of  lasting 
attraction  and  incalculable  value.  By 
virtue  of  his  rich  and  passionate  nature 
he  stands  in  close  proximity  to  the  great 
group  from  whose  magic  circle  he  was 
shut  out  only  by  his  failure  to  obey  the 
laws  of  his  art.  Few  writers  have  pos 
sessed  a  force  of  imagination  and  passion 
so  great  and  so  impressive;  and  it  is  in 
teresting  to  note  how  much  more  quickly 
men  are  drawn  to  the  Titan  than  to  the 
Olympian ;  for  struggle  is  pathetically 
universal,  and  the  repose  of  harmoni 
ous  achievement  pathetically  rare  among 
men.  The  greater  the  art,  the  slower 
the  recognition,  as  a  rule.  The  impres- 

220 


Struggle  in  Art 

sion  made  by  a  lawless  or  unregulated  force 
is  always  more  immediate  than  that  made 
by  a  mastered  and  harmonised  power. 
The  rending  of  a  cliff  makes  every  ob 
server  conscious  of  the  force  of  the  ex 
plosive,  but  how  few  ever  think  of  the 
force  put  forth  in  lifting  an  oak  from  its 
rootage  in  the  earth  to  the  great  height 
where  all  the  winds  of  heaven  play  upon  it! 
The  "  storm  and  stress  "  period  moves 
all  hearts  and  stirs  in  the  young  imagina 
tion  one  knows  not  what  dreams  and 
desires,  but  when  the  ferment  of  spirit  is 
past,  and  the  new  thought  has  taken  its 
enduring  form,  what  a  sense  of  dis 
appointment  comes  to  a  host  of  aspiring 
souls  !  The  struggle  touched  and  intox 
icated  them  with  a  sense  of  something 
not  only  great  but  akin  to  their  own  ex 
perience  ;  the  clarification  and  final  ex 
pression  of  the  new  spirit  in  art  seems 
somehow  remote  and  cold.  When  the 
"  Sorrows  of  Werther  "  appeared  a  thrill 
ran  through  Germany;  but  when 
"Tasso"  and  "Iphigenia"  were  given 


221 


My  Study  Fire 

to  the  world  with  what  indifference  they 
were  received !  The  boy  reads  "  The 
Robbers"  with  bated  breath,  but  ten 
years  later  he  knows  that  the  Schiller  of 
the  Wallenstein  trilogy  was  an  incompa 
rably  greater  writer  than  the  Schiller  of 
"  The  Robbers."  Revolt  is  easier  than 
reconstruction ;  at  the  barricade  every 
one  is  swept  by  a  consuming  enthusi 
asm,  but  the  moment  the  attempt  is 
made  to  give  the  new  time  order  and  sta 
bility,  divisions  and  indifference  appear. 
Struggle,  however  noble,  is  for  the  mo 
ment  ;  achievement  has  something  of 
eternity  in  it.  The  Titan  is  always  a 
striking  figure,  but  it  is  the  Olympian 
who  endures  and  rules. 

The  element  of  struggle  is,  however, 
a  part  of  the  greatest  art,  and  the  motive 
of  much  of  the  highest  work  done  by 
men  has  been  the  harmonising  of  antag 
onistic  forces  and  the  final  and  beautiful 
synthesis  of  contending  ideas.  It  is  by 
struggle  that  life  is  broadened,  and  the 
human  spirit  freed  from  many  of  its  limi- 

222 


Struggle  in  Art 

tations ;  and  there  is  nothing  nobler  in 
man  than  that  constant  dissatisfaction 
with  his  condition  which  provokes  the 
struggle.  The  race  is  always  reaching 
forward  to  grasp  better  things  than  it 
yet  possesses.  It  is  haunted  by  visions 
of  perfection,  and  driven  on  by  aspira 
tions  and  dreams  which  will  not  suffer 
it  to  rest  in  any  present  achievement. 
This  discontent  is  not  a  superficial  rest 
lessness  ;  it  is  the  evidence  of  the  infinite 
possibilities  of  man's  nature,  and  of  his 
inability  to  stop  short  of  complete  devel 
opment.  All  literature  bears  witness  to 
this  arduous,  sorrowful,  inspiring  struggle 
for  a  more  harmonious  life,  so  often  de 
feated,  so  constantly  renewed. 

In  the  record  of  this  sublime  drama, 
of  which  man  himself  is  the  protagonist, 
there  is  found  one  great  means  of  escape 
from  those  limitations  of  experience 
which  give  us  such  constant  pain  and  fill 
us  with  a  consuming  desire  to  escape 
from  ourselves.  "  Sensations  of  all  kinds 
have  been  crowding  upon  me,"  writes 
223 


My  Study  Fire 

Amiel,  —  "  the  delights  of  a  walk  under 
the  rising  sun,  the  charms  of  a  wonderful 
view,  longing  for  travel,  and  thirst  for  joy, 
hunger  for  work,  for  emotion,  for  life, 
dreams  of  happiness  and  of  love.  A 
passionate  wish  to  live,  to  feel,  to  express, 
stirred  the  depths  of  my  heart.  It  was 
a  sudden  reawakening  of  youth,  a  flash 
of  poetry,  a  renewing  of  the  soul,  a  fresh 
growth  of  the  wings  of  desire.  I  was 
overpowered  by  a  host  of  conquering, 
vagabond,  adventurous  aspirations.  I 
forgot  my  age,  my  obligations,  my  duties, 
my  vexations,  and  youth  leapt  within  me 
as  though  life  were  beginning  again.  It 
was  as  though  something  explosive  had 
caught  fire,  and  one's  soul  were  scattered 
to  the  four  winds ;  in  such  a  mood  one 
would  fain  devour  the  whole  world, 
experience  everything,  see  everything. 
Faust's  ambition  enters  into  one  —  uni 
versal  desire  —  a  horror  of  one's  own 
prison  cell.  One  throws  off  one's  hair 
shirt,  and  one  would  fain  gather  the  whole 
of  nature  into  one's  arms  and  heart." 
224 


Struggle  in  Art 

How  often  Amiel  made  the  rounds  of 
his  cell,  and  how  vainly  he  strove  to 
break  the  bars  of  his  temperament,  the 
world  knows  from  that  incomparable 
record,  in  the  writing  of  which  his  spirit 
found  the  escape  sought  for  in  vain  in 
other  directions.  Self-contained,  reticent, 
shy,  how  few  dreamed  of  the  turbulence 
in  the  soul  of  the  formal  and  didactic 
teacher  in  the  formal  and  rather  pedantic 
little  city  of  Calvin  and  Rousseau  !  With 
out  the  "  Journal,"  the  struggle  and  the 
wealth  of  Amiel's  nature  would  never 
have  been  known  ;  it  adds  another  chap 
ter  to  that  book  of  life  in  which  the  race 
records  its  secret  hopes  and  despairs. 
And  is  it  not  pathetically  significant  that 
the  motive  with  which  the  Greek  drama 
tists  dealt  with  so  strong  a  hand  reappears 
in  this  quiet  drama  enacted  in  the  soul  of 
the  Genevan  Professor  of  Moral  Philos 
ophy  ?  On  the  widest  as  on  the  narrow 
est  stage  it  is  the  motive  which  all  men 
understand,  because  it  is  a  part  of  every 
human  experience.  The  Old  Testament, 
15  225 


My  Study  Fire 

the  Epics  of  Homer,  the  "  Divine  Com 
edy,"  the  plays  of  Shakespeare,  and 
"  Faust "  are  among  its  greatest  records, 
but  its  story  is  in  all  lives. 

To  every  man  comes  the  struggle,  to  a 
few  great  writers  the  power  to  interpret 
the  struggle  and  predict  or  portray  its 
issue  in  immediate  reconciliation  or  in 
ultimate  achievement.  And  so  art  be 
comes  an  avenue  of  escape  from  the 
prison  of  personal  experience,  not  only 
by  taking  us  out  of  ourselves,  but  by 
disclosing  the  identity  of  our  individual 
struggle  with  the  universal  struggle  of 
humanity.  It  opens  the  door  out  of 
the  particular  into  the  universal,  and  it 
constantly  predicts  the  final  resolution 
of  discords  into  harmony,  the  ultimate 
reconciliation  of  contending  ideas  and 
forces ;  and  when,  as  in  "  Lear,"  it  gives 
no  suggestion  of  an  answer  to  the  prob 
lems  involved,  the  very  magnitude  of 
the  drama  which  it  unfolds  compels  the 
inference  of  an  adequate  solution  on 
some  other  and  larger  stage. 
226 


Chapter   XXVIII 

The  Passion  for  Perfection 

IT   is  one  of  the  pains  of  the  artistic 
temperament  that  its  exaltations  of 
mood  and  its  ecstasies  of  spirit  must  be 
largely  solitary.     The  air  of  this  century 
is  not  genial  to  that  intimacy  with  beauty 
which  solicits  easy  interchange  of  confi 
dences  among  those  who  enjoy  it.     The 
mass  of  men  are  preoccupied  and  unsen- 
sitive  on  that  side  of  life  which  has  for 
the  artist  the  deepest  reality;    they  are 
given    over    to    pursuits   which  are    im 
perative    in    their    demands,    and    fruit 
ful    in    their    rewards,    but   which    lead 
far  from  the  pursuit  of  beauty.     There 
have  been  times  when  the  artistic  tem 
per,  if  not  widely  shared,  was  generally 
understood,   and    such  times  will    come 
when  the  modern  world  becomes 
227 


My  Study  Fire 

more  thoroughly  harmonised  with  itself; 
meantime  the  man  who  has  the  joys 
of  the  artistic  temperament  will  accept 
them  as  a  sufficient  consolation  for  its 
pains. 

For  the  essence  of  this  temperament  is 
not  so  much  its  sensitiveness  to  every 
revelation  of  the  beautiful  as  its  passion 
for  perfection.  There  is  in  the  life  of 
the  artist  an  element  of  pain,  which  never 
goes  beyond  a  dumb  sense  of  discontent 
in  men  of  coarser  mould ;  for  the  artist 
is  compelled  to  live  with  his  ideals ! 
Other  men  have  occasional  glimpses  of 
their  ideals;  the  artist  lives  his  life  in 
their  presence  and  under  their  searching 
glances.  A  man  is  in  the  way  to  become 
genuine  and  noble  when  his  ideals  draw 
near  and  make  their  home  with  him  in 
stead  of  floating  before  him  like  summer 
clouds,  forever  dissolving  and  reforming 
on  the  distant  horizon ;  but  he  is  also  in 
the  way  of  very  real  anguish  of  spirit. 
Our  ideals,  when  we  establish  them  under 
our  own  roofs,  are  as  relentless  as  the 
228 


The  Passion  for  Perfection 

Furies  who  thronged  about  Orestes ;  they 
will  not  let  us  rest.  The  world  may 
applaud,  but  if  they  avert  their  faces 
reputation  is  a  mockery  and  success  a 
degradation.  The  passion  for  perfection 
is  the  divinest  possession  of  the  soul,  but 
it  makes  all  lower  gratifications,  all  com 
promises  with  the  highest  standards,  im 
possible.  The  man  whom  it  dominates 
can  never  taste  the  easy  satisfactions 
which  assuage  the  thirst  of  those  who 
have  it  not ;  for  him  it  must  always  be 
the  best  or  nothing. 

Flaubert,  Mr.  James  tells  us,  ought 
always  to  be  cited  as  one  of  the  martyrs 
of  the  plastic  idea ;  the  "  torment  of 
style  "  was  never  eased  in  his  case,  and 
despite  his  immense  absorption  and  his 
tireless  toil,  he  failed  to  touch  the  invis 
ible  goal  for  which  he  set  out.  "  Pos 
sessed,"  says  one  of  his  critics,  who  was 
also  a  devotee  of  the  supreme  excellence, 
"  of  an  absolute  belief  that  there  exists 
but  one  way  of  expressing  one  thing, 
one  word  to  call  it  by,  one  adjective  to 
229 


My  Study  Fire 

qualify,  one  verb  to  animate  it,  he  gave 
himself  to   superhuman   labour    for   the 
discovery,  in  every  phrase,  of  that  word, 
that  verb,  that  epithet.     In  this  way  he 
believed    in   some    mysterious    harmony 
of  expression,  and   when    a   true   word 
seemed   to    him    to    lack    euphony,   still 
went  on  seeking  another  with  invincible 
patience,    certain    that  he    had    not   yet 
got  hold  of  the   unique   word.  ...  A 
thousand    preoccupations    would    beset 
him  at  the  same    moment,  always  with 
this    desperate    certitude    fixed    in    his 
spirit,  —  among    all    the    expressions    in 
the  world,  there  is  but  one  —  one  form, 
one  mode  —  to  express  what  I  want  to 

say." 

To  a  mind  capable  of  absolute  devo 
tion,  such  an  ideal  as  Flaubert  set  before 
him  not  only  draws  him  on  through 
laborious  days,  deaf  to  the  voices  of 
pleasure,  but  consumes  him  with  an 
inward  fire.  The  aim  of  the  novelist 
was  not  simply  to  set  the  best  words  in 
the  best  order ;  it  was  to  lay  hold  upon 
230 


The  Passion  for  Perfection 

perfection  ;  to  touch  those  ultimate  limits 
beyond  which  the  human  spirit  cannot 
go,  and  where  that  spirit  stands  face  to 
face  with  the  absolute  perfection.  This 
passionate  pursuit  of  the  finalities  of 
form  and  expression  is  as  far  removed 
from  the  pursuit  of  mere  craftsmanship 
as  art  itself  is  separated  from  mere 
mechanical  skill ;  and  yet  so  little  is  the 
real  significance  of  art  understood  among 
us  that  it  is  continually  confused  with 
craftsmanship,  and  spoken  of  as  some 
thing  apart  from  a  man's  self,  something 
born  of  skill  and  akin  to  the  mechanical, 
instead  of  being  the  very  last  and  supreme 
outflowing  of  that  within  us  which  is 
spontaneous  and  inspired.  In  a  fine 
burst  of  indignation  at  this  profanation 
of  one  of  the  greatest  words  in  human 
speech,  Mr.  Aldrich  says : 

"  Let  art  be  all  in  all,"  one  time  I  said, 

And  straightway  stirred  the  hypercritic  gall ; 
I  said  not, "Let  technique  be  all  in  all," 
But  art  —  a  wider  meaning.     Worthless,  dead  — 
231 


My  Study  Fire 

The  shell  without  its  pearl,  the  corpse  of  things, 
Mere  words  are,  till  the  spirit  lends  them  wings  ; 
The  poet  who  breathes  no  soul  into  his  lute 
Falls  short  of  art :   'twere  better  he  were  mute. 

The  workmanship  wherewith  the  gold  is  wrought 
Adds  yet  a  richness  to  the  richest  gold  : 
Who  lacks  the  art  to  shape  his  thought,  I  hold, 
Were  little  poorer  if  he  lacked  the  thought. 
The  statue's  slumbers  were  unbroken  still 
Within  the  marble,  had  the  hand  no  skill. 
Disparage  not  the  magic  touch  that  gives 
The  formless  thought  the  grace  whereby  it  lives ! 

Flaubert  did  not  touch  the  goal,  in 
spite  of  his  heroic  toil,  and  largely 
because  of  that  toil.  For  he  sought  too 
strenuously,  with  intention  too  insistent 
and  dominant;  he  was  driven  by  his 
passion  instead  of  being  inspired  by  it. 
It  is  as  true  of  our  relations  with  our 
ideals  as  of  our  relations  with  our 
friends  that  we  must  preserve  our  inde 
pendence  ;  our  ideals  must  lead,  but 
they  must  not  tyrannise  over  us.  There 
is  something  in  us  which  even  our  ideals 
must  respect,  and  that  something  is  our 
232 


The  Passion  for  Perfection 

own  individuality.     The  perfection  which 
a  man  pursues  must  be  the  perfection  of 
his  own  quality,  not  a  perfection  which 
is  foreign  to  him.     It  is  himself  which 
he  is  to  raise  to   the   highest  point   of 
power,  not  something  outside  of  himself. 
Flaubert   understood    this,   for    he   once 
wrote:   "In   literature    the    best    chance 
one  has  is  by  following  one's   tempera 
ment  and  exaggerating   it."      Neverthe 
less,  one  of  the  defects  of  his  work  is  the 
fact  that  its  perfection  is  not  the  perfec 
tion   of  his    temperament,  —  is,   indeed, 
a    kind    of    objective    perfection,   which 
seems  at  times  detached  so  entirely  from 
temperament    that  it  is   hard    and    cold 
and    devoid    of    atmosphere.       To    this 
detachment  is   due  perhaps    the    failure 
to    secure    that    ultimate    excellence    of 
which   his  whole   life   was   one    arduous 
pursuit.       For    Flaubert    rarely    passed 
beyond    the    stage    of    effort;    his    pen 
rarely  caught  that  native  rhythm  which 
we  detect  in  Scott  and  Thackeray  and 
Tolstoi  at  their  best,  —  that  perfect  ade- 
233 


My  Study  Fire 

quacy,  manifested  in  perfect  ease,  which 
makes  us  forget  the  toil  in  the  perfection 
of  the  work,  and  which  assures  us  that 
the  slow  hand  of  the  artisan  has  become 
the  swift  hand  of  the  artist.  Surely  the 
way  of  perfection  is  straight  and  narrow, 
and  few  there  be  who  follow  it  to  the 
end! 


234 


Chapter  XXIX 

Criticism  as  an  Interpreter 

A  GOOD  deal  has  been  said  about 
the  influence  of  criticism  as  a  re 
straining  and  corrective  force  constantly 
and  effectively  brought  to  bear  on  writers ; 
and  it  is  probably  true  that  no  small  gains 
in  the  direction  of  better  and  sounder 
work  have  been  made  as  a  result  of  criti 
cism,  even  when  it  has  been  inadequate 
and  coarse  in  tone.  There  is  good  reason 
to  believe  that  Tennyson  felt  keenly  the 
unnecessary  offensiveness  with  which  the 
tinge  of  sentimentality  and  the  defective 
energy  of  expression  in  his  work  given 
to  the  world  in  1832  were  pointed  out 
by  more  than  one  critical  writer  of  the 
time  ;  nevertheless,  the  young  poet  prof 
ited  by  correction  so  ungraciously  admin 
istered,  and  what  might  have  developed 
235 


My  Study  Fire 

into  an  unsound  strain  became,  ten  years 
later,  the  evidence  of  a  peculiar  ripeness 
and  beauty.  In  many  cases,  doubtless, 
criticism,  even  when  it  has  fallen  below 
its  highest  levels,  has  been  a  useful 
teacher  and  monitor,  and  in  this  way  has 
rendered  genuine  service  to  literature. 
But  this  service  of  criticism  is,  after  all, 
secondary  and  incidental ;  for  it  is  the 
writer,  and  not  the  critic,  who  makes  lit 
erature,  not  only  in  the  sense  of  creating, 
but  also  of  determining  its  forms.  The 
critic  often  tells  the  writer  facts  about 
himself  which  are  of  lasting  value  in  his 
artistic  education,  but  in  the  end  it  is  the 
writer  who  marks  out  the  lines  along 
which  the  critic  must  move. 

Criticism  was  long  oblivious  of  this 
fundamental  fact  in  its  relation  to  dis 
tinctively  creative  work ;  it  was  long 
under  the  impression  that  the  final  au 
thority  resided  in  itself  rather  than  in  the 
work  upon  which  it  passed  judgment 
with  entire  confidence  in  its  own  compe 
tency.  It  was  not  until  criticism  passed 
236 


Criticism  as  an  Interpreter 

into   the  hands  of  men   of  insight  and 
creative  power  that  it  discovered  its  chief 
function   to   be    that   of  comprehension, 
and  its  principal   service   that   of  inter 
pretation.     Not  that  it  has  surrendered 
its  function  of  judging  according  to  the 
highest  standards,  but  that  it  has  discov 
ered  that  the  forms  of  excellence  change 
from  time  to  time,  and  that  the  question 
with  regard  to  a  work  of  art  is  not  whether 
it  conforms  to  types  of  excellence  already 
familiar,  but  whether  it  is  an  ultimate  ex 
pression  of  beauty  or  power.     In  every 
case  the  artist  creates  the  type,  and  the 
critic  proves  his  competency  by  recognis 
ing  it ;  so  that  while  the  critic  holds  the 
artist  to  rigid  standards  of  veracity  and 
craftsmanship,  it  is  the  artist  who   lays 
down  the  law  to  the  critic.    As  an  applied 
art,  based  on  deduction,  and  constructing 
its  canons  apart  from  the  material  which 
literature  furnishes,  criticism  was  notable 
mainly  for  its  fallibility.     As  an  art  based 
on  induction,  and   framing  its  laws    ac 
cording  to  the    methods  and  principles 
237 


My  Study  Fire 

illustrated  in  the  best  literature,  it  has 
advanced  from  a  secondary  to  a  lead 
ing  place  among  the  literary  forms  now 
most  widely  employed  and  most  widely 
influential. 

The  real  service  of  criticism  is  to  the 
reader  rather  than  to  the  writer,  and  it 
serves  literature  chiefly  by  making  its 
recognition  on  the  part  of  the  reader  more 
prompt  and  more  complete.  A  work  of 
art  does  not  need  to  be  preserved,  it  pre 
serves  itself;  there  is  in  it  a  vitality  which 
endures  indifference  and  survives  neglect. 
What  is  often  lost,  however,  is  the  imme 
diate  influence  of  such  a  work.  It  has 
happened  again  and  again  in  the  history 
of  literature  that  a  great  book  has  been 
long  unrecognised  ;  and  a  resource  which 
might  have  enriched  life  has  been  put 
aside  until  men  were  educated  to  receive 
and  use  it.  It  is  as  an  educative  force 
that  criticism  has  developed  its  most  im 
mediate  and,  perhaps,  its  most  lasting 
usefulness. 

For  while  great  works  of  art  do  not 
238 


Criticism  as  an  Interpreter 

need  the  aid  of  criticism  to  preserve  them 
from  the  danger  of  actual  disappearance, 
they  do  need  its  service  as  an  interpreter. 
What  Addison  had  to  say  about  Milton 
did  not  protect  the  Puritan  poet  from 
any  danger  of  permanent  obscurity,  but  it 
went  far  toward  making  a  clearer  under 
standing  of  his  greatness  possible.  It 
was  a  service  to  the  English  people,  and, 
in  so  much  as  it  opened  their  eyes  to  an 
excellence  which  had  been  widely  denied, 
it  was  also  a  service  to  English  literature. 
The  old  dramas  which  Lamb  loved  with 
such  missionary  zeal  were  in  no  sense 
dependent  upon  that  zeal  for  their  preser 
vation  ;  but  they  gained  by  it  a  recogni 
tion  more  general  and  more  intelligent 
than  they  had  won  even  from  the  gen 
eration  which  had  heard  their  noble 
or  terrible  lines  declaimed  on  the  stage. 
Cromwell  would  have  remained  the  great 
soul  he  was  had  Carlyle  passed  him  by, 
but  it  was  Carlyle's  searching  insight  and 
victorious  art  which  restored  the  Pro 
tector  to  his  place  in  the  history  and  the 
239 


My  Study  Fire 

heart  of  England.  To  comprehend  a 
work  of  art,  a  certain  degree  of  education 
must  be  attained ;  and  the  greater  and 
more  original  the  work  of  art,  the  deeper 
and  more  thorough  the  education  re 
quired.  For  it  is  the  peculiar  quality 
of  genius  to  be  prophetic,  and  to  create 
in  advance  —  sometimes  far  in  advance 
—  of  general  comprehension.  Society 
must  grow  into  the  larger  thought  which 
at  first  often  escapes  it,  and  grow  into  the 
openmindedness  to  which  beauty  in  a  new 
form  successfully  makes  its  appeal.  The 
greater  writers,  whose  creative  energy 
finds  new  channels  and  manifests  itself 
under  unfamiliar  aspects,  are  always  in 
advance  of  the  general  capacity  of  appre 
ciation,  and  are  always  in  need  of  inter 
preters  ;  and  this  office  of  interpretation 
has  become  the  chief  function  of  criticism. 
Taine  interprets  English  literature  by 
effectively,  if  somewhat  coarsely,  filling 
in  the  background  of  the  environment 
and  experience  of  the  race ;  while  Sainte- 
Beuve  interprets  the  book  by  suggesting 
240 


Criticism  as  an  Interpreter 

with    delicate    but   impressive    skill    the 
personality   of  the  writer. 

When    a    man   like  Goethe  takes  up 
criticism,  its  range  and  power  become  at 
once  apparent.    Insight  is  substituted  for 
literary  tradition,  and  sympathy  is  em 
phasised  as  the  keyword  of  the  critical 
art.     We  are  no  longer  dealing  with  ^  a 
police  magistrate   intent  upon  the  rigid 
administration  of  a  petty  local  code,  but 
with  a  man  of  universal  interests,  familiar 
with  all  standards,  quick  to  feel  all  kinds 
of  excellence,  and  eager  to  discern  in  a 
work  of  art,  not  only  its  relation  to  the 
past,  but  its  fresh  revelation  of  what  is  in 
man  and  in   his   life,  and  its   new  dis 
closure  of  the  exhaustless  power  of  the 
imagination  to  create  forms.     After  such 
a  critic  has  spoken,  and  has  suggested  the 
possibilities  of  criticism,  it  is  not  surpris 
ing  to  find  so  many  minds  of  the  highest 
order  drawn  to   it.     So   far   from   being 
the  secondary  or  derivative  art  which  ^  it 
is  often  declared  to   be,  criticism,  on  its 
higher  plane,  involves  the  possession  of 
16  241 


My  Study  Fire 

an  insight,  a  breadth  of  intelligence,  and 
a  faculty  of  expression  which  in  their 
combination  must  be  regarded  as  belong 
ing  to  the  sphere  of  the  creative  forces. 
Coleridge,  Carlyle,  Sainte-Beuve,  Amiel, 
Arnold,  Emerson,  and  Lowell  represent 
criticism  at  its  best,  and  are,  therefore,  the 
men  by  whose  work  it  must  be  judged. 


242 


Chapter  XXX 

The  Educational  Quality  of  Criticism 

THE  prime  characteristic  of  the  work 
of  the  great  critics  is  interpretation, 
and  its  deepest  influence  is  educational. 
It  is  true  that  all  art  is  educational,  and 
that  literature,  as  Matthew  Arnold  long 
ago  said  in  one  of  his  suggestive  school 
reports,  contains  the  best  possible  material 
for  education ;  but  criticism  is  peculiarly 
and    definitely    educational,    because    it 
brings   into   clear    light    the   significance 
of  literature  as  a  whole.     The  immediate 
and  vital   relationship    between   art   and 
life,  which  has  given  literature  an  entirely 
new  meaning  to  modern  men,  was  largely 
discerned    and    disclosed    by    the    great 
modern  critics.     To  them  we   owe   not 
only  clear  ideas  of  the  specific  work  and 
personal  quality  of  each  writer,  but  clear 
243 


My  Study  Fire 

ideas  of  his  relation  to  his  time  and  to 
his  race,  —  of  his  significance  in  the 
development  of  literature  and  in  the 
history  of  the  human  soul.  There  is 
a  distinct  and  definite  educational  value 
in  the  comprehension  of  Montaigne's 
relation  to  his  age,  of  the  influences 
which  found  their  expression  in  Voltaire 
and  Rousseau,  and  of  the  facts  of  race 
inheritance  and  social  condition  which 
made  so  deep  an  impress  on  the  artistic 
temperament  of  Tourguenieff.  There 
is  indeed  no  educational  material  of  such 
interest  and  importance  as  that  preserved 
in  books,  because  nowhere  else  has  the 
life  of  men  made  a  record  at  once  so 
frank,  so  searching,  and  so  appealing. 
It  was  a  profound  thought  of  Froebel's 
that  the  true  teacher  of  each  individual 
is  the  race,  and  that  what  the  race  has 
thought,  felt,  and  accomplished  is  the 
richest  material  for  educational  uses. 
And  literature,  being  the  fullest  and 
frankest  revelation  of  what  is  in  men 
and  of  what  they  have  experienced,  is 
244 


Educational  Quality  of  Criticism 

the  most  vital  and  persuasive  teacher  of 
humanity. 

It  is  and  has  been  the  function  of 
criticism  in  the  hands  of  the  masters  of 
the  art  to  bring  into  clear  light  this  edu 
cational  significance  of  literature  ;  to  trace 
its  intimate  and  necessary  relations  with 
the  time  which  produced  it ;  to  indicate 
the  racial  elements  which  enter  into  it ; 
to  point  out  the  impress  of  personality ; 
and  to  set  each  great  work  in  true  rela 
tion  to  that  disclosure  of  the  nature  of 
man  of  which  art  has  kept  so  faithful 
a  record.  In  thus  dealing  with  literary 
works  as  parts  of  one  great  expression 
of  the  soul,  criticism  has  not  lost  its 
judicial  spirit  nor  parted  with  its  instinct 
for  perfection  of  form.  It  has  simply 
struck  a  true  balance  between  the  human 
and  the  artistic  elements  in  works  of 
literature;  it  has  shown  the  rootage  of 
art  in  life ;  it  has  set  the  man  beside  his 
work,  and  made  the  work  the  revelation 
of  the  man.  The  value  of  the  general 
service  of  such  a  new  reading  of  literature 
245 


My  Study  Fire 

cannot  be  estimated,  —  so  wide,  so  deep, 
and  so  subtle  are  those  educational  influ 
ences  which  play  upon  the  spirits  of 
men  as  part  of  the  atmosphere  which 
they  breathe.  This  is,  however,  a  ser 
vice  to  literature  itself  which  is  often 
overlooked.  The  quality  of  disinterest 
edness,  upon  which  Mr.  Arnold  insisted 
at  the  very  beginning  of  his  career  as  a 
critic,  carries  with  it  an  inevitable  en 
largement  of  thought.  It  is  impossible 
to  study  literary  works  as  they  appeal 
fresh  from  widely  differing  conditions 
of  race  and  individual  life  without  re 
ceiving,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  an 
education  of  a  very  high  order.  Insular 
ignorance,  class  prejudice,  national  antag 
onism,  race  hostility,  individual  prepos 
session  and  limitation  are  insensibly 
modified  by  contact  with  life,  unifying 
such  a  variety  of  conditions,  and  reveal 
ing  itself  with  equal  authority  through 
such  different  forms  of  expression.  The 
men  are  few  whose  literary  creeds  can 
remain  provincial  in  the  face  of  the 
246 


Educational  Quality  of  Criticism 

catholicity  of  modern  criticism.  One 
may  be  wedded  to  Romanticism,  but  he 
must  be  uncommonly  unresponsive  if  he 
fails  to  feel  the  power  of  such  verse  as 
Landor  and  Arnold  have  given  us.  In 
these  days  it  is  possible  to  be  a  lover  of 
Flaubert  and  De  Maupassant  and  yet 
enjoy  George  Sand  ;  to  care  for  Corneille 
and  yet  recognise  the  power  of  Ibsen. 

To  put  aside  accidental  methods,  ac 
cepted  standards,  and  personal  prepos 
sessions,  and  with  open  mind  to  search 
each  work  of  literature  for  its  aim,  its 
reality,  and  its  excellence,  is  not  only  to 
receive  that  kind  of  education  which 
affects  the  quality  of  a  man's  nature,  but 
to  make  it  easier  for  the  writer  with  the 
new  word  and  the  new  spirit  to  secure 
a  hearing.  Many  changes  have  taken 
place  since  Rabelais  found  it  necessary 
to  veil  his  attack  on  the  educational 
methods  of  the  Church ;  a  man  may 
now  speak  his  thought  without  peril  to 
his  head.  But  freedom  of  opinion  was 

more  easily  won  than  freedom  of  artistic 
247 


My  Study  Fire 

expression.  Even  in  our  own  time  there 
has  been  more  than  one  demonstration 
of  the  danger  which  the  artist  faces  when 
he  ventures  into  a  fresh  field  and  em 
ploys  a  new  method.  Carlyle,  Brown 
ing,  Ibsen,  and  Whitman  remind  us,  in 
different  chapters  of  their  experience, 
that  artistic  tolerance  has  not  yet  come 
to  perfect  flower,  and  that  disinterested 
ness  is  not  yet  universal.  Nevertheless, 
it  remains  true  that  the  conception  of 
literature  was  never  so  broad  as  at  this 
moment,  and  there  have  never  been  so 
many  intelligent  persons  eager  to  recog 
nise  beauty,  truth,  and  power,  however 
strangely  garbed.  When  a  critic  so  fas 
tidious  as  Matthew  Arnold  recognises 
the  literary  quality  shared  in  common 
by  men  as  diverse  in  temperament,  idea, 
aim,  and  artistic  method  as  Wordsworth, 
Byron,  Gray,  Shelley,  Heine,  and  Tolstoi, 
the  genuine  catholicity  of  modern  criticism 
may  be  regarded  as  nearly  complete.  If 
the  new  method  must  still  win  its  way 
against  prejudice  and  conventional  notions 
248 


Educational  Quality  of  Criticism 

of  art,  it  is  rather  because  of  indifference 
and  inertia  than  of  intentional  antago 
nism.  In  these  days  genius  is  in  greater 
peril  from  premature  than  from  post 
poned  recognition;  it  is  more  likely  to 
be  forced  than  to  be  repressed. 

The  larger  thought  of  literature,  as  an 
expression  of  the  soul  under  the  condi 
tions  of  life  and  in  the  forms  of  art,  not 
only  gives  it  a  foremost  place  among  the 
forces  which  civilise  men,  but  gives  it  the 
stimulus  of  a  great  function  and  the  free 
dom  of  a  governing  power.  Criticism 
has  not  only  opened  the  minds  of  readers, 
but  it  has  invited  writers  to  a  freedom 
which  they  formerly  were  compelled  to 
fight  for ;  and  who  can  doubt  that  in  the 
long  run  this  broader  education  of  those 
to  whom  literature  makes  its  appeal  will 
react  upon  literary  artists  through  prov 
ocation  of  earlier  recognition,  quicker 
response,  and  truer  comprehension  ? 


249 


Chapter  XXXI 

Plato's  Dialogues  as  Literature 

WHEN  Dr.  Jowett's  translation  of 
Plato's  "Dialogues  "  appeared  in 
this  country  twenty  years  ago,  a  story 
was  current  that  a  Western  newspaper 
closed  its  review  of  the  work  with  the 
remark  that  Plato  was  one  of  the  great 
est  of  English  prose  writers  !  No  finer 
tribute  was  ever  paid  to  a  translator,  and 
that  Plato  got  the  credit  of  Dr.  Jowett's 
beautiful  skill  was  the  most  unaffected 
of  compliments  to  the  art  of  the  accom 
plished  Master  of  Balliol  College.  Plato 
had  long  been  studied  as  a  thinker,  but 
the  "  Dialogues "  as  literature  had  re 
ceived  small  attention.  An  occasional 
scholar  had  paused  by  the  way  in  his 
philosophical  studies  to  note  the  range 
and  beauty  of  Plato's  style,  and  to  feel 
the  charm  of  a  literary  quality  rare  at  ail 
250 


Plato's  Dialogues  as  Literature 

times,  and  in  no  other  instance  possessed 
in  equal  degree  by  a  thinker  of  the  first 
order.  For  while  there  have  been  philo 
sophical  writers  of  force  and  clearness, 
Plato  is  the  only  great  literary  artist 
who  has  drawn  upon  all  the  resources 
of  language  to  give  philosophic  thought 
vividness,  adequacy,  and  perfection  of 
expression. 

The  Greek  genius  gave  many  illustra 
tions  of  the  power  of  art  to  receive  and 
communicate  the  most  virile  and  power 
ful  as  well  as  the  most  subtle  and  delicate 
impress  of  the  soul  of  man  on  his  fellows 
and  his  time,  but  in  nothing  was  the 
depth  and  force  of  the  artistic  impulse 
more  impressively  shown  than  in  the  ease 
of  manner,  the  amplitude  of  mood,  the 
ripeness  of  spirit,  and  perfection  of  form 
with  which  a  system  of  thought  was  set 
forth.  Under  the  spell  of  an  artistic  im 
pulse  so  pervasive  and  so  genuine,  states 
manship  became  a  matter  of  harmony 
and  co-ordination  quite  as  distinctly  as 
sculpture  or  architecture,  —  for  Pericles 

251 


My  Study  Fire 

was  as  great  an  artist  as  Phidias  ;  oratory 
touched  the  sources  of  power  in  speech 
with  an  instinct  as  sure  and  true  as  that 
of  the  poet,  —  for  Demosthenes  was  as 
genuine  an  artist  as  Sophocles.  It  was 
reserved  for  Plato,  however,  to  discuss 
the  profoundest  questions  of  life,  not  with 
the  aridity  of  a  purely  logical  method, 
but  with  the  freshness,  the  charm,  and 
the  grace  of  one  to  whom  the  divine 
Maker  never  ceased  to  be  the  divine 
Artist.  The  structure  of  the  Parthenon 
discloses  complete  mastery  of  the  art  of 
building,  but  in  the  thought  of  its  build 
ers  the  pure  construction  of  that  noble 
treasure-house  was  never  separated  from 
the  obvious  and  matchless  beauty  which 
makes  it  a  thing  of  joy  even  in  its  ruins. 
In  like  manner,  the  most  poetic  of  Greek 
thinkers  did  not  divorce,  even  in  thought, 
the  massive  structure  of  the  universe 
from  that  beauty  which  clothes  it  in  the 
sense  in  which  beauty  clothes  the  flower, 
by  growing  out  of  its  hidden  substance. 
It  is  fortunate  for  the  English-speaking 
252 


Plato's  Dialogues  as  Literature 

peoples  that  this  artist  in  thought  and 
speech  found  a  translator  whose  scholar 
ship  was  equal  to  the  large  demands  of 
the  "  Dialogues,"  and  whose  literary  in 
stinct  and  faculty  were  at  once  so  re 
sponsive  and  so  adequate.  Plato  could 
not  have  been  translated  save  by  a  man 
of  rare  literary  gift,  and  the  possession 
of  such  a  gift  was  the  foremost  qualifi 
cation  of  Dr.  Jowett.  It  is  the  fashion 
among  some  academicians  to  sneer  at  the 
literary  faculty,  but  the  fashion  is  a  harm 
less  one ;  or,  if  it  harms  any  one,  harms 
only  its  votaries.  The  artistic  element  is 
the  creative  element,  and  is,  therefore, 
distinctly  the  most  precious  quality  of 
the  human  mind,  —  the  quality  which 
manifests  itself  in  clear  supremacy  when 
ever  character,  thought,  action,  or  achieve 
ment  of  any  kind  approaches  perfection. 
Scholarship  is  comparatively  common  in 
the  dullest  age,  but  the  artistic  gift  is  rare 
in  the  greatest  age.  In  Plato  this  ele 
ment  is  so  pervasive  and  so  characteristic 
that  to  translate  the  "  Dialogues "  with- 
253 


My  Study  Fire 

out  reproducing  their  atmosphere  would 
be  like  giving  us  the  measurements  of 
the  Sistine  Madonna  without  giving  us 
contour,  colour,  or  expression.  The 
criticism  which  has  sometimes  assailed 
Dr.  Jowett's  translation  because  of  its 
grace  and  fluency  has  been  an  uninten 
tional  tribute  to  the  excellence  of  a  work 
which,  with  refreshing  disregard  of  aca 
demic  notions,  is  not  only  accurate, 
but  has  dared  to  be  as  charming  as  its 
original ! 

In  Dr.  Jowett's  full  and  ripe  English, 
Plato's  thought  and  expression  are  so 
faithfully  preserved  that  one  stands  in 
no  need  of  the  Introductions  to  discern 
the  quality  which  makes  the  "  Dia 
logues J>  literature  quite  as  distinctly  as 
they  are  philosophy.  For  the  abiding 
and  varied  charm  of  these  discussions 
is  the  personality  which  pervades  them. 
Plato  was  not  a  professional  thinker, 
intent  upon  uncovering  the  logical  order 
of  material  and  spiritual  construction ; 
he  was  a  richly  endowed  personality,  to 
254 


Plato's  Dialogues  as  Literature 

whose  mobile  imagination  and  quick 
artistic  perceptions  the  movement  of  the 
world  was  full  of  vitality,  colour,  and 
harmony.  Thought  was  never  divorced 
from  feeling,  abstracted  from  the  whole 
of  things  ;  it  was  involved  in  the  general 
order  and  inseparable  from  it.  To  com 
prehend  the  universe,  one  must  not  only 
perceive  its  structure,  but  feel  its  fath 
omless  beauty  and  bathe  in  its  flowing 
tides  of  vitality.  This  steadfast  deter 
mination  to  see  things  in  their  vital 
movement  gives  us  that  harmony  which 
is  so  pronounced  in  Plato's  thought,  and 
gives  us  also  those  charming  groups 
which  are  associated  with  the  "  Dia 
logues."  It  was  a  consummate  art  which 
made  each  discussion  a  chapter  out  of 
contemporary  life,  hinting  at  the  limita 
tions  of  thought  by  skilfully  bringing 
out  the  limitations  of  the  individual 
mind  and  experience,  and  keeping  always 
in  view  the  dependence  of  thought  on 
temperament,  education,  and  character ; 
to  say  nothing  of  the  luminous  side- 
255 


My  Study  Fire 

lights  thrown  on  the  profoundest  themes 
by  interlocutors  who  contribute  not  only 
their  thoughts,  but  themselves,  to  the 
debate,  and  who  give  the  hour  and  the 
question  a  rich  and  lasting  human  in 
terest.  It  is  the  constant  spell  of 
this  human  interest  which  makes  some 
of  the  dialogues  —  the  "  Phaedo,"  the 
"  Phsedrus,"  and  the  "  Symposium,"  for 
instance  —  literary  classics.  For  the 
essence  of  art  is  that  it  is  concrete  in 
stead  of  being  abstract,  and  that  it  real 
ises  its  thought  in  symbols  and  persons 
instead  of  putting  it  into  propositions  or 
maxims.  If  Plato  had  been  simply  a 
philosopher,  he  would  have  given  the 
world  the  dissertation  with  which  it  has 
been  familiar  from  the  time  of  Aristotle 
to  that  of  Kant ;  but  because  he  was 
also  an  artist  he  immersed  his  thought 
in  the  warm  atmosphere  of  human  life, 
and  at  every  stage  gave  it  the  dramatic 
interest  of  intimate  human  association. 

Those    changing   groups   whose    talk 
we  seem  to  overhear  in  so  many  pages 
256 


Plato's  Dialogues  as  Literature 

of  the  "  Dialogues  "  bring  before  us  the 
mobility  of  the  Ionic  spirit,  —  that  sen 
sitiveness  to  form  and  colour,  that  quick 
interest  in  everything  which  touched  the 
life  of  men,  that  instinct  for  the  harmo 
nious,  which,  in  their  combination,  ex 
plain  not  only  the  Attic  genius  but  the 
charm  of  Plato  as  a  writer.  There  is 
an  intense  vitality  in  him,  as  there  was 
in  the  Greek  culture ;  but  it  is  restrained 
and  harmonised.  There  is  everywhere 
a  strong  sense  of  reality  ;  but  it  is  reality 
in  its  very  highest  and  most  lasting 
forms.  We  are  introduced  to  many  per 
sons,  but  most  of  them  are  of  surpass 
ing  interest.  The  human  element,  in 
delicately  drawn  contrasts  of  character, 
constantly  divides  attention  with  the 
thought,  and  while  we  climb  the  loftiest: 
heights  we  are  conscious  at  every  step  of 
human  companionship.  The  freshness, 
buoyancy,  and  vivacity  of  youth  relieve 
the  tension  of  speculation,  and  some 
times,  as  in  the  famous  passage  in  the 
"Symposium,"  the  strain  of  pure 
17  257 


My  Study  Fire 

thought  becomes  a  kind  of  introduction 
to  a  bit  of  drama  of  surpassing  charm. 
Plato's  imagination  is  revealed  in  the 
structure  of  the  "  Dialogues,"  and  in 
his  conception  of  the  form  in  which  his 
thought  is  cast ;  it  finds,  however,  spe 
cific  disclosure  in  those  fables  which 
often  contain  the  profoundest  essence  of 
his  thought,  but  which  are  singularly 
beautiful  in  imagery  and  symbolism.  It 
is  found  also  in  his  style,  in  its  variety, 
flexibility,  fluidity,  colour,  and  freshness, 
—  a  style  delicate  enough  to  receive  the 
lightest  impression,  and  stable  enough 
to  contain  and  communicate  the  pro 
foundest  thought.  Says  Mr.  Pater : 
<c  No  one,  perhaps,  has  with  equal  power 
literally  sounded  the  unseen  depths  of 
thought,  and,  with  what  may  be  truly 
called  c  substantial '  word  and  phrase, 
given  locality  there  to  the  mere  adum 
bration,  the  dim  hints  and  surmises,  of 
the  speculative  mind." 

Whoever     opens     the     cc  Dialogues " 
knows  that  here  there  is  the  magic  of 

253 


Plato's  Dialogues  as  Literature 

art  in  lasting  alliance  with  high  and 
exacting  thought,  and  that  between  these 
pages  there  is  found  not  only  the  mind 
but  the  immortal  life  and  freshness  of 
Greece :  "  We  shall  meet  a  number  of 
our  youth  there:  we  shall  have  a  dia 
logue:  there  will  be  a  torchlight  pro 
cession  in  honour  of  the  goddess,  an 
equestrian  procession,  —  a  novel  feature! 
What?  torches  in  their  hands,  passed 
on  as  they  race  ?  Ay,  and  an  illumina 
tion  through  the  entire  night.  It  will 
be  worth  seeing  !  " 


259 


Chapter  XXXII 

The  Power  of  the  Novel 

THE  interest  excited  by  books  of 
such  substance  and  quality  as  Mrs. 
Ward's  "  Marcella  "  shows  very  clearly 
that  the  attractive  power  of  fiction,  after 
all  these  years  of  immense  productiv 
ity  in  that  department,  is  still  unspent. 
Mr.  Crawford,  who  is  one  of  the  most 
widely  read  novelists  of  the  day,  is  of 
the  opinion  that  the  novel  has  passed  its 
prime ;  but  neither  the  quality  of  work 
in  fiction  nor  the  popular  interest  in  it 
shows  as  yet  any  evidence  of  decrepitude. 
On  the  contrary,  at  the  close  of  a  century 
which  has  been  dominated  by  the  novel 
as  a  literary  form,  fiction  still  remains,  on 
the  whole,  the  most  real  and  vital  of  all 
the  forms  of  expression  which  literary 
men  are  using,  and  is  probably  the  form 
260 


The  Power  of  the  Novel 

which  exerts  the  widest  influence  upon 
the  reading  public.     It  would  be  unwise 
to  predict  the  form  of  literature  for  which 
the  men  and  women  of  the  close  of  the 
twentieth  century  will  care  most,  but  the 
prediction  that  a  hundred  years  from  now 
the   novel  will  still   be  universally  read 
would  be  perhaps  less   rash  than  most 
literary  predictions.     In  this  country  it 
cannot  be  said  that  we  have  produced  any 
novelist    of  the    first   rank   since  Haw 
thorne,  but  we  have  produced  a  goodly 
number  of  novelists  of  high  rank  and  a 
multitude   of  short-story   writers   whose 
work  betrays  the  presence  of  both  nature 
and  art  in  very  uncommon  and  delight 
ful  combination.     The  fact  that  we  have 
produced  no  great  novelist,  and  that  the 
novel  is  still  so  widely  read,  shows  that 
its  spell  resides  in  some   element  aside 
from  the  individual  power  of  the  writer, 
and    that    there   is    in    the    novel,    as    a 
form    of  literature,  a    charm  which   the 
men  and  women  of  these  days  feel  very 
deeply. 

261 


My  Study  Fire 

That  charm  resides  in  the   force,  the 
directness,  and  the  delicacy  with  which 
fiction    has    interpreted    and    portrayed 
human  life.     The  human  drama  in  these 
later  days  is   engrossing  to  all  serious- 
minded  people,  and  wherever  the  moral 
or  spiritual  fact  or  experience  is  drama 
tised  by   the    novelist  with   even  a  fair 
degree  of  power,  the  novel  which  results 
is  certain  to  have  a  wide  reading.     The 
world- wide  movement  which  has  already 
made  such  modifications  in  the  social  con 
ditions,   and    which   is   silently   effecting 
such  a  revolution  in  the  relations  of  men 
with  men  and  of  class  with  class,  finds  its 
way  into   art    through    the   insight,   the 
observation,  and  the  skill  of  the   great 
novelist;    and  such   a  book  as   "  Mar- 
cella,"   entirely  aside   from  its  dramatic 
effectiveness,  gains    an    immense   power 
simply  from  the  fact  that  it  deals  with 
questions  in  which  everybody  is  inter 
ested,  and  introduces  with  great  direct 
ness  that  human  element  which  is  to-day 
part  and  parcel  of  every  religious,  politi- 
262 


The  Power  of  the  Novel 

cal,  or  industrial  problem.  The  same 
impulse  which  gives  the  novel  such  a 
hold  upon  readers  produces  also  the 
great  novelist;  for  behind  every  wide 
spread  literary  movement  there  is  always 
a  vital  movement  of  experience  ;  and  the 
great  writer,  while  his  power  resides  in 
his  own  personality,  is,  in  a  deep  and 
true  sense,  the  child  of  his  time  and  the 
interpreter  of  its  thought. 

This  deeper  source  of  interest  must 
not  tempt  us  to  forget,  however,  that  the 
art  of  literature  still  involves  both  pleas 
ure  and  recreation,  and  that  the  sole  end 
of  the  book  is  not  to  instruct,  inspire, 
and  expand.  These  are,  indeed,  the  in 
evitable  results  of  the  greatest  works  of 
art,  but  there  is  still  a  legitimate  field  for 
the  solace,  the  entertainment,  and  the 
recreation  of  mankind  in  the  hands  of 
the  story-tellers.  It  is  safe  to  say,  in  the 
face  of  all  the  tendency  novels  and  the 
novels  of  purpose  which  have  flooded 
the  world  in  recent  years  —  and  some  of 
them  are  notable  and  permanent  contri- 
263 


My  Study  Fire 

butions  to  literature  —  that  men  and 
women  still  crave  the  novel  of  adventure 
and  the  romantic  story.  The  old  story 
tellers  who  recited  the  "Arabian  Nights  " 
hundreds  of  years  ago,  and  are  still  re 
peating  them  in  the  East  to-day,  meet 
what  is  commonly  known  as  "  a  real 
need,"  —  the  need  of  change,  diversion, 
rest,  and  pleasure.  And  the  great  story 
tellers,  like  Walter  Scott  and  Dumas, 
who  do  not  represent  a  school  of 
thought,  and  do  not  set  about  a  specific 
work  of  reform,  have  their  place  quite 
as  distinctly  as  George  Eliot  or  Charles 
Dickens.  The  story  of  adventure  and 
the  romantic  novel  are  dear  to  the  human 
heart,  and  are  certain  to  reappear  at  in 
tervals  no  matter  how  marked  the  occa 
sional  reaction  against  them  may  be,  as 
long  as  books  are  written.  Indeed,  there 
will  be  a  question  in  many  minds  whether, 
as  literary  artists,  some  of  these  occasion 
ally  discredited  writers  for  pleasure  and 
entertainment  are  not  greater  than  those 
who  use  the  novel  as  a  means  of  teach- 
264 


The  Power  of  the  Novel 

ing.  That  is  too  large  a  question  to  dis 
cuss  at  this  moment.  It  is  enough  to 
point  out  the  fact  that  Mr.  Stevenson, 
Mr.  Crockett,  Mr.  Weyman,  and  Mr. 
Doyle  are  in  every  sense  legitimate 
novelists.  Indeed,  they  may  point  to 
the  greatest  masters  of  fiction  as  the  ex 
emplars  of  the  particular  art  which  they 
themselves  are  illustrating.  Certainly 
the  world  never  needed  diversion  of  the 
right  sort  more  than  it  needs  it  to-day, 
and  there  cannot  be  too  many  wholesome 
stories  of  the  kind  that  lighten  the  bur 
dens,  divert  the  attention,  and  refresh  the 
souls  of  men.  Art  stands  in  relations 
with  life  too  intimate  and  vital  to  escape 
the  claims  of  contemporaneous  passions, 
convictions,  and  movements;  but  the 
deepest  notes  it  has  struck  have  issued 
from  that  fundamental  human  nature 
which  lies  below  the  mutations  of  soci 
ety.  "Don  Quixote"  is  a  book  for 
the  world  and  for  all  time,  not  because 
it  satirised  with  such  destructive  power 
the  extravagant  and  over-wrought  ro- 
265 


My  Study  Fire 

mances  of  chivalry,  but  because  it  is 
one  of  those  documents  of  human 
character  which  are  independent  of  the 
social  conditions  which  called  them 
forth. 


266 


Chapter  XXXIII 

Concerning  Originality 

NO  modern  man  has  said  so  many 
masterly  things  about  art  and 
the  creative  side  of  life  as  Goethe ;  his 
comments  and  reflections  form  the  finest 
body  of  maxims,  suggestions,  and  prin 
ciples  extant,  for  one  who  seeks  to  know 
how  to  live  fully  and  freely  in  the  intel 
lect.  It  is  easy  to  point  out  his  limita 
tions,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  discover  the 
boundaries  of  his  knowledge  and  activ 
ities,  or  to  indicate  the  limits  of  his  in 
fluence.  He  created  on  a  great  scale ; 
but,  on  a  still  greater  scale,  he  rational 
ised  and  moralised  the  education,  the 
materials,  the  methods,  and  the  moods 
of  the  creative  man  among  his  fellows. 
He  was  not  a  Titan,  struggling  fiercely 
with  intractable  elements  ;  he  was,  rather, 
an  Olympian,  easily  and  calmly  doing 
267 


My  Study  Fire 

his  work  and  living  his  life,  with  a  mas 
terful  obedience  to  the  laws  of  the  mind, 
and  a  masterful  command  of  his  time, 
his  talent,  and  his  tools.  In  all  that 
concerns  art  in  its  fundamental  relations 
to  the  life  of  the  artist  and  to  society, 
he  is  the  greatest  modern  authority. 

Goethe  had  not  only  the  insight,  but 
the  courage  and  the  frankness  of  genius  ; 
for  genius,  unlike  talent,  has  no  tricks, 
dexterities,  or  secrets  of  method  ;  it  is  as 
mysterious  as  the  sunlight,  and  as  open 
and  accessible.  It  is  true,  he  sometimes 
took  a  mischievous  delight  in  mystifying 
his  critics,  but  he  made  no  secret  of  his 
methods.  There  was  no  sleight-of-hand 
about  his  skill,  —  it  was  large,  free,  ele 
mental  power.  He  used  the  common 
artistic  material  as  freely  as  Shakespeare, 
and  with  as  little  concealment.  He  did 
not  take  pains  to  be  original  in  the  pop 
ular  sense  of  the  word.  In  a  letter  to 
his  friend,  Professor  Norton,  Mr.  Lowell 
says :  "  The  great  merit,  it  seems  to  me, 
of  the  old  painters  was  that  they  did  not 
268 


Concerning  Originality 

try  to  be  original.  c  To  say  a  thing/ 
says  Goethe,  c  that  everybody  else  has 
said  before,  as  quietly  as  if  nobody  had 
ever  said  it,  that  is  originality/ '  The 
great  German,  who  was  the  most  pro 
foundly  original  of  modern  men,  has  put 
this  idea  in  several  forms,  and  given  it, 
by  repetition,  an  emphasis  which  indi 
cates  the  importance  he  attached  to  it. 
"  There  is  nothing  worth  thinking,"  he 
says,  "  but  it  has  been  thought  before  ; 
we  must  only  try  to  think  it  again."  In 
another  maxim  he  declares  that  "the 
most  foolish  of  all  errors  is  for  clever 
young  men  to  believe  that  they  forfeit 
their  originality  in  recognising  a  truth 
which  has  already  been  recognised  by 
others." 

The  greatest  minds  see  most  clearly 
the  long  process  of  education  which  lies 
behind  a  new  thought,  and  are  quickest 
to  know,  therefore,  that  in  the  bringing 
of  new  truth  to  light  there  is  always  a 
wide  division  of  work  and  a  general  shar 
ing  of  the  honor  of  discovery.  It  is, 
269 


My  Study  Fire 

indeed,  only  a  small  mind  that  can  pro 
duce  something  new  in  the  sense  that 
the  like  of  it  has  never  been  seen  be 
fore  ;  for  such  a  bit  of  newness  can  never 
be  other  than  a  touch  of  individualism, 
an  unexpected  turn  of  expression,  a  quaint 
phrase,  an  odd  fancy,  a  fresh  bit  of  obser 
vation.  A  deep  thought,  a  wide  general 
isation,  are  always  based  on  something 
greater  than  individualism  ;  they  involve 
wide  communion  with  nature  or  human 
ity.  The  quickly  appreciated  writers 
often  have  a  kind  of  superficiality,  —  a 
telling  and  effective  way  of  putting 
things.  A  fresh  touch  makes  a  famil 
iar  commonplace  shine,  and  it  passes 
current  for  the  moment  as  a  new  coin ; 
but  it  remains,  nevertheless,  the  old 
piece  whose  edges  have  been  worn 
these  many  years  by  much  handling. 

The  fresh  touch  is  something  to  be 
grateful  for,  but  it  does  not  evidence  the 
possession  of  that  rare  and  noble  quality 
which  we  call  originality.  If  we  go  to 
the  great  writers  for  illustration  of  origi- 
270 


Concerning  Originality 

nality,  we  do  not  find  it  in  eccentricity 
of  thought,  in  piquancy  of  phrase,  in  un 
usual  diction,  in  unexpected  effects  of 
any  kind.  The  original  writers  are 
peculiarly  free  from  those  taking  man 
nerisms  which  are  so  constantly  mistaken 
for  evidences  of  originality,  and  so  often 
imitated.  These  masters  of  original 
thought  and  style  are  singularly  simple, 
open,  and  natural.  Their  power  obvi 
ously  lies  in  frank  and  unaffected  ex 
pression  of  their  own  natures.  For  ori 
ginality,  like  happiness,  comes  to  those 
who  do  not  seek  it ;  to  set  it  before  one 
as  an  aim  is  to  miss  it  altogether.  The 
man  who  strives  to  be  original  is  in  grave 
peril  of  becoming  sensational,  and  there 
fore,  from  the  standpoint  of  art,  vulgar ; 
or,  if  he  escapes  this  danger,  he  is  likely 
to  become  self-conscious  and  artificial. 
There  is  nothing  more  repulsive  to  gen 
uine  spiritual  insight  than  the  cheap 
and  tawdry  declamation  which  sometimes 
passes  in  the  pulpit  for  originality,  and 
nothing  more  repugnant  to  true  artistic 
271 


My  Study  Fire 

feeling  than  the  posing  and  straining 
which  are  sometimes  accepted  for  the 
moment  .as  evidences  of  creative  power. 
Power  of  the  highest  kind  is  largely  un 
conscious,  and  partakes  too  much  of  the 
nature  of  the  divine  power  to  be  made 
the  servant  of  ignoble  and  petty  ends ; 
and  the  artist  whose  aim  is  simply  to 
catch  the  eye  of  the  world  will  not  long 
retain  the  power  that  is  in  him. 

Originality  of  the  highest  and  most 
enduring  type  has  no  tricks,  mannerisms, 
or  devices ;  it  is  elemental ;  it  is  largely 
unconscious ;  it  rests,  not  upon  individ 
ual  cleverness,  but  upon  broad  and  deep 
relationships  between  the  artist  and  the 
world  which  he  interprets.  Homer, 
Dante,  and  Shakespeare  are  the  most 
original  men  who  have  appeared  in  the 
history  of  literature ;  but  they  are  singu 
larly  devoid  of  novelty  in  the  customary 
sense  of  the  word.  They  are,  on  the 
contrary,  singularly  familiar;  every  reader 
feels  that  they  have  somehow  gotten  the 
advantage  of  him  by  expressing  at  an 
272 


Concerning  Originality 

earlier  age  the  thoughts  and  feelings 
which  he  had  supposed  to  be  pecu 
liarly  his  own.  Nothing  really  great 
is  ever  unexpected ;  for  the  really  great 
work  is  always  based  on  something  uni 
versal,  in  which  every  man  has  a  share. 
A  conceit,  a  bit  of  quaintness,  a  cunning 
device,  a  sudden  turn  of  thought  or 
speech,  takes  us  unaware  and  puzzles 
us ;  it  is  individual,  and  we  have  no 
share  in  it.  But  a  great  idea,  or  a  piece 
of  great  art,  finds  instant  recognition  of 
its  veracity  and  reality  in  the  swift  re 
sponse  of  our  souls.  It  not  only  speaks 
to  us,  —  it  speaks  in  us  and  for  us.  It 
is  great  because  so  vast  a  sweep  of  life 
is  included  in  it ;  it  is  deep  because  it 
strikes  below  all  differences  of  experience 
into  the  region  of  universal  experience. 
Homer  and  Shakespeare  are,  in  a  way, 
as  elemental  as  the  sky  which  overarches 
all  men,  and  which  every  man  sees,  or 
may  see,  every  day  of  his  life.  But  the 
sky  is  not  the  less  wonderful  because  it 

belongs   to  the  whole   earth,  and    is  as 
is  273 


My  Study  Fire 

much  the  possession  of  the  clown  as 
of  the  poet.  The  power  which  hangs  it 
before  every  eye  has  furnished  no  more 
compelling  evidence  of  its  mysterious 
and  incalculable  resources.  In  like 
manner,  the  highest  power  illustrated 
in  art  demonstrates  its  depth  and  cre 
ative  force  by  the  elemental  simplicity 
and  range  of  its  creations,  —  by  its  in 
sight  into  those  things  which  all  men 
possess  in  common.  The  distinctive 
characteristic  of  the  man  of  profound 
originality  is  not  that  he  speaks  his  own 
thought,  but  that  he  speaks  my  thought ; 
not  that  he  surprises  me  with  novel  ideas 
and  phrases,  but  that  he  makes  me  ac 
quainted  with  myself. 


274 


Chapter  XXXIV 

By  the  Way 

HOW    much    of  what   is    best   and 
pleasantest   in  life    comes  to    us 
by    the    way  !     The    artist    forms    great 
plans  and  sets  about  great  achievements, 
but  when  he  comes  to  the  hour  of  real 
isation    he  discovers    that    the    personal 
reward    has  come    mainly   by    the    way. 
The  applause  of  which  he  dreamed,  the 
fame   for  which  he    hoped,  bring   small 
satisfaction ;    the  joy    of  the    work    was 
largely  in  the  doing  of  it,  and  was  taken 
in  the   long  days  of  toil   and  the  brief 
times    of  rest   which  were   part    of  the 
great    undertaking.      To    the     man    or 
woman  who    looks    forward    from    the 
heights   of  youth    life    seems    to    be    an 
artistic  whole,  which  can  be  completely 
shaped    by    the    will,  and  wrought    out 
with  perfection  of  detail  in  the  repose 
275 


My  Study  Fire 

and  silence  of  the  workshop.  In  that 
glowing  time  the  career  of  a  great  man 
appears  to  be  so  symmetrical,  so  rounded, 
so  complete,  that  it  seems  to  be  a  veri 
table  work  of  art,  thought  out  and  exe 
cuted  without  hindrance,  and  with  the 
co-operation  of  all  the  great  forces. 
Nights  of  rest  and  days  of  work,  unin 
terrupted  and  cumulative,  with  bursts  of 
applause  widening  and  deepening  as  the 
years  go  by,  with  fame  adding  note  after 
note  to  her  hymn  of  praise,  —  is  not 
this  the  dream  of  young  ambition  as  it 
surveys  the  field  from  the  place  of 
preparation  ? 

The  ideal  is  not  an  ignoble  one,  but 
it  falls  far  short  of  the  great  reality  in 
range  and  effort.  There  is  an  artistic 
harmony  in  a  great  life ;  but  it  is  not  a 
conscious  beauty  deliberately  evoked  by 
a  free  hand  bent  only  on  the  illustration 
of  its  skill ;  it  is  a  beauty  born  of  pain, 
self-sacrifice,  and  arduous  surrender  to 
the  stern  conditions  of  success.  A  bit 
of  fancy  lightly  inspires  the  singer,  and 
276 


By  the  Way 

as  lightly  borrows  the  wings  of  verse ;  a 
great  vision  of  the  imagination  demands 
years  and  agonies.  A  bit  of  verse,  such 
as  serves  for  the  small  currency  of  poe 
try,  runs  off  the  pen  on  a  convenient 
scrap  of  paper ;  a  great  poem  involves  a 
deep  movement  of  human  life,  —  some 
thing  vast,  profound,  mysterious.  A 
great  life  is  a  work  of  art  of  that  noble 
order  in  which  a  man  surrenders  himself 
to  the  creative  impulse,  and  becomes  the 
instrument  of  a  mightier  thought  and 
passion  than  he  consciously  originates. 
There  is  a  deep  sense  in  which  we  make 
our  careers,  but  there  is  a  deeper  sense 
in  which  our  careers  are  made  for  us. 
The  greater  the  man  the  greater  the 
influences  that  play  upon  him  and  centre 
in  him  ;  it  is  more  a  question  of  what 
he  shall  receive  than  of  what  he  shall  do. 
His  life-work  is  wrought  out  in  no  well- 
appointed  atelier,  barred  against  intru 
sion,  enfolded  in  silence;  the  task  must 
be  accomplished  in  the  great  arena  of 
the  world,  jostled  by  crowds,  beaten 
277 


My  Study  Fire 

upon  by  storms,  broken  in  upon  by  all 
manner  of  interruptions.  The  artist 
does  not  stand  apart  from  his  work, 
surveying  its  progress  from  hour  to 
hour,  and  with  a  skilful  hand  bringing 
his  thought  in  ever  clearer  view ;  for  the 
work  is  done,  not  by,  but  within  him ; 
his  aspiring  soul,  passionate  heart,  and 
eager  mind  are  the  substance  upon  which 
the  tools  of  the  graver  work.  Death 
and  care,  disease  and  poverty,  do  not 
wait  afar  off,  awed  by  greatness  and  en 
thralled  by  genius ;  the  door  is  always 
open  to  them,  and  they  are  often  famil 
iar  companions.  The  work  of  a  great 
life  is  always  accomplished  with  toil,  self- 
sacrifice,  and  with  incessant  intrusions 
from  without ;  it  is  often  accomplished 
amid  bitter  sorrows  and  under  the  pres 
sure  of  relentless  misfortune. 

Yet  these  things,  that  break  in  upon 
the  artistic  mood  and  play  havoc  with 
the  artistic  poise,  make  the  life-work 
immeasurably  nobler  and  richer;  the 
reality  differs  from  the  ideal  of  youth  in 
278 


By  the  Way 

being  vaster,  and  therefore  more  difficult 
and  painful  of  attainment.  The  easy 
achievement,  always  well  in  hand,  and 
executed  in  the  quiet  of  reposeful  hours, 
gives  place  to  the  sublime  accomplish 
ment  wrought  out  amid  the  uproar  of 
the  world  and  under  the  pressure  of  the 
sorrow  and  anguish  which  are  a  part  of 
every  human  lot.  The  toil  is  intense, 
prolonged,  and  painful  because  it  is  to 
be  imperishable ;  there  is  a  divine  ele 
ment  in  it,  and  the  work  takes  on  a  form 
of  immortality.  The  little  time  which 
falls  to  the  artist  here  is  inadequate  to 
the  greatness  of  his  task  ;  the  applause, 
small  or  great,  which  accompanies  his 
toil  is  but  a  momentary  and  imperfect 
recognition  of  what  has  been  done  with 
strength  and  beauty.  It  is  pleasant 
when  men  see  what  one  has  done,  but  the 
real  satisfaction  is  the  consciousness  that 
something  worthy  of  being  seen  has  been 
accomplished.  The  rewards  of  great  liv 
ing  are  not  external  things,  withheld  un 
til  the  crowning  hour  of  success  arrives ; 
279 


My  Study  Fire 

they  come  by  the  way, —  in  the  con 
sciousness  of  growing  power  and  worth, 
of  duties  nobly  met,  and  work  thor 
oughly  done.  To  the  true  artist,  work 
ing  always  in  humility  and  sincerity,  all 
life  is  a  reward,  and  every  day  brings  a 
deeper  satisfaction.  Joy  and  peace  are 
by  tfre  way. 


280 


U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


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